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FOREORDAINED 

WITH 


OTHER STORIES 









FOREORDAINED 


WITH OTHER STORIES 


BY 

Everhardt Armstrong 

»$ 



THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. PUBLISHERS 
PHILADELPHIA MCMXIII 







Copyright, 1913, by 
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. 


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©C1.A346049 

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THOMAS BELL TINNEY 


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CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Foreordained 11 

Doubt 39 

The Hat 89 

In October 109 

Ralston 157 

189 


Stalled Ox 

A Summer Reverie. 
A White Flower, , 


219 

239 


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FOREORDAINED 








FOREORDAINED 


H e was born in Chinatown. His 
father, whom he never saw, had 
been an escaped convict; his 
mother a miserable unfortunate, de- 
scended from a somewhat higher social 
stratum than most of her fallen sisters. 
From the first he was inured to the 
heavy, soporific odour of burning opium 
and the sickening smell of cheap, raw 
whiskey. Home, in his queer vocabulary, 
meant a narrow back room over a Chi- 
nese restaurant, containing a bed, several 
chairs, and a window with dirty cur- 
tains. While under the influence of 
liquor and drugs, his mother often chas- 
tised him, physically and verbally; but 
when sober she was not unkind. His 


FOREORDAINED 


schooling was received in the filthy 
streets of the “Tenderloin,” where he 
played and fought with the children of 
yellow fathers and white mothers. 

Before he was nine years old, Charlie 
was taken into custody with several 
other young miscreants, who had stolen 
the lead pipe from a vacant house. 
Charlie’s share in the ^ loot, sold to a 
twisted hunch-back with a horrible 
mouth, amounted to eighteen cents. 
With the others he had been arraigned 
before a magistrate at the House of 
Detention. The junk dealer went to 
jail. Charlie, with his associates, was 
sent to a reformatory, to be herded 
with young desperadoes, many of whom 
boasted experiences much more varied 
than his own. At this time, he was a 
spindly, undersized child, with a skin 


1121 


FOREORDAINED 


pallid where not besmeared with dirt; 
small, feverishly bright eyes; and a lean 
mouth, which emitted a ready flow of 
filthy verbiage. 

Four months after being committed 
to the reformatory, Charlie made his 
escape, and returned to his old 
haunts. But his mother was gone; 
and the room in which he had been 
born was now occupied by another 
“lady.” Inquiry disclosed the fact that 
his mother had been “sent up to the 
Correction.” 

Homeless, he felt scant inconvenience 
at the loss, and resumed his irregular 
life. For a time he sold newspapers; 
grew tired of that, and returned to the 
“Tenderloin,” where he earned enough 
to prevent himself from dying by “rack- 
ing up” at a pool room. During the 


FOREORDAINED 


summer months he slept almost any- 
where — in a public square, under a 
portico, or occasionally, on wet 
nights, in the back room of some 
saloon whose proprietor valued his 
services. 

The following winter he was adopted 
by an old pickpocket, a sort of Fagin, 
who taught him the various artifices and 
tricks of his ignoble profession; and 
Charlie proved an apt pupil. 

He stayed out of jail until he was 
nineteen. Then he was committed for 
one year. He came away a little lower, 
if possible, in the moral scale than he 
had been before. In prison he had made 
the acquaintance of an older man, a 
house-breaker by calling, whose term 
expired at almost the same time as his 
own. Charlie found it convenient to 


114 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


change his name; and the two formed 
a partnership, for a time operating suc- 
cessfully. 

They were arrested, together, early 
one morning while trying to saw through 
a wall separating them from a grocer’s 
safe. 

After losing his colleague, whose sen- 
tence was much longer, Charlie deter- 
mined to quit house-breaking and confine 
himself to picking pockets, at which he 
had become very skillful. His subsequent 
existence was that of hosts of others of 
his class — weak, deluded, ignorant souls 
who think that they can “get back at 
society”; and who consequently spend 
half their lives in miserable confinement. 
He became quite a familiar character 
with the police, and his pictures were 
in the “galleries” of seven cities. He 


1151 


FOREORDAINED 


was generally known as “Chinatown 
Charlie.” 

^While serving a seven-year sentence in 
the Eastern Penitentiary he made the 
acquaintance of the chaplain, a young 
enthusiast, who really accomplished some 
good among the prisoners. This man did 
not counsel Charlie to pray, that his sins 
might be forgiven; but he did tell him 
that at the expiration of his term he 
would find him a position, and help him 
to respectability. During the five years 
and eleven months to which his sentence 
was ultimately shortened, Charlie had 
ample time for reflection. An honest 
life, heretofore, had seemed something 
beyond his ken; and he decided to accept 
the chaplain’s offer. When freed he 
would reform; he would do his best. 

The chaplain was as good as his word; 


116 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


and several days after being released 
Charlie was employed at an iron foundry, 
where the foreman did not inquire too 
closely into the pasts of men he took on. 
The work was very hard, especially for 
one of Charlie’s frail physique; but in 
it he found contentment. His restless 
cravings were extinct. The kind chap- 
lain had taught him to read; and at 
night, although thoroughly tired, he 
studied the Bible, before crawling into 
bed in his little attic room. During 
his early life he had never heard men- 
tion of God or Jesus except when these 
names were employed in the emphasis 
of some vile expletive. Consequently, 
he read the gospels with simple faith, 
and became one of those rare beings — a 
follower of the precepts of Christ. 

One evening, as he was returning from 


117 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


work, an emaciated, whining cur ran up 
to him from an alley, rubbing his head 
against Charlie’s legs. There was some- 
thing about the forlorn, starving beast 
that reminded him of himself. Were 
they not both outcasts? He took the 
stranger home, fed him, and was re- 
warded by having the animal as a per- 
manent guest. They were always to- 
gether. Sitting in his broken rocking 
chair, while the gas flickered dimly above 
his head, Charlie would labouriously 
spell out his favourite verses aloud, while 
Pete, grown to be quite a self-respecting 
dog again, curled on the rag carpet at 
his feet. 

Sometimes, on summer evenings, he 
would venture forth into the square, 
where he had often slept during his early 
days, and preach to the derelicts who 


[181 


FOREORDAINED 


gathered there. More than once he shared 
his slender savings with some wretch, 
more unfortunate than himself, with 
whom he felt in deep sympathy. 

One hot day, it was the Fourth of July, 
Charlie was hurrying toward the steam- 
boat wharf — for he and Pete had decided 
to take a holiday — when he became 
encompassed by a crowd of river excur- 
sionists. With Pete clutched to his 
breast, Charlie was making what progress 
he could, when a thick hand fell rudely 
on his shoulder and a voice rumbled in 
his ear: 

“Well! I’m dashed if it ain’t China- 
town Charlie. Thought you knowed 
better and had cut it out fer good?’’ 

It was Detective Stanley, one of the 
oldest at the City Bureau, who had been 


[ 19 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


strolling through the crowd when his 
eye happened to fall upon Charlie’s vis- 
age. It looked familiar. Stanley prided 
himself on his ability to “smell a pick- 
pocket.’’ 

Charlie’s face paled. He shrank; he 
could not speak. Pete, scenting trouble, 
sprang from his master’s arms onto the 
pavement, with a short little bark. 

“Damn the cur!’’ shouted Stanley, 
fearing the dog meant to bite him; 
and he gave the inoffensive animal 
a vicious kick that sent him sprawl- 
ing in the gutter. Something within 
Charlie’s heart gave way. He was 
no longer afraid: he struck the big 
detective in the face with all the feeble 
strength of his right arm. Next 
moment he received a terrific blow 
on the head from Stanley’s blackjack. 


[ 20 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


as that worthy representative of the city 
bawled: 

“Assault an aufficer, will ye?” 

A crowd collected; and a patrolman, 
who had remained discreetly in the 
background until a cessation of hostilities, 
now came forward to investigate. Stand- 
ing over his prostrate prisoner, who 
offered no resistance, Stanley ordered 
the policeman to call the patrol wagon. 

When Charlie regained consciousness 
his first coherent thought was for Pete. 
He called the dog’s name, and reached 
out his hand. It fell on the cold side 
of an iron bed. Looking about, his eyes 
encountered rows of them, with their 
grimy visaged occupants. Beside him 
there was an old man, with a crooked 
face, whom Nature had evidently repu- 
diated as bad work, and branded with 


[211 


FOREORDAINED 


a horrible sore extending from mouth to 
ear. Charlie touched his head, and felt 
a bandage. So he was in a hospital! 
He wondered what had happened. 

Less than half an hour after he be- 
came conscious, a traffic officer arrived 
from the City Hall to escort him to the 
cell room. Later in the afternoon he 
was taken into the office of the captain 
of detectives. 

Captain Stroud was a comparatively 
just man, though somewhat rough and 
unlettered. He recognized Charlie at 
once, but did not treat him unkindly. 
Sitting on a stool beside the captain’s 
desk was a little fat man, fanning him- 
self vigourously with his grey cap. He 
looked at Charlie curiously, as if he were 
beholding some strange, prehistoric mon- 
ster, suddenly revived. He had never 


[ 22 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


been face to face with an acknowledged 
thief before. 

“Did this man take your pocketbook? 
Remember we don’t want any lies here.’* 
The captain’s glance rested sternly on the 
little man’s face, as he spoke. 

“I — I — I really couldn’t say, you know. 
I didn’t see the man who snatched it.’’ 
He pointed to Stanley who stood with 
his burly, red paw unnecessarily grasp- 
ing Charlie’s collar. “But this gentle- 
man here told me he was sure this 
prisoner took my money, that he is 
a — a bad man, and has been in jail, 
and, ah — ’’ 

“Oh, cut it out! What is it all about, 
Stanley?’’ interrupted the captain angrily. 
“Tell me quick.’’ 

“Well,’’ the big detective began, “I’d 
been watching the crowd on Market 


[ 23 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


Street, bein* as this party had reported 
the loss of a roll earlier in the day near 
Nint’, when I piped Charlie, here. He 
got gay, too, when I took him up.” 

“He was searched upstairs, wasn’t he? 
Did you find anything?” 

“No, sir.” 

The captain turned abruptly toward 
the prisoner: “Did you trim anybody, 
Charlie? You know you were breaking 
the law by going into a crowd.” 

Charlie raised his head: “I stole noth- 
ing, sir; I did not see the crowd until 
I was in it; and — and Stanley J^icl^ed my 
dog.” 

“The little brute came at me, I hope 
I killed him,” muttered the detective. 

“I understand that you’ve been living 
straight for some years, Charlie,” spoke 
the captain, ignoring Stanley’s effort to 


124 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


evoke pity, “and I hate to see you in 
trouble again.” 

Five minutes later, Stanley led his prey 
back to the cell room. 

Next morning, Charlie, with a number 
of other prisoners, was ushered into the 
Central Police Court, after a night made 
hideous by the yells and ravings of a 
drunken cell-mate. There is an odour 
peculiar to police courts on warm days, 
an ineffable, pungent emanation of un- 
clean humanity which permeates every- 
thing, offending all nostrils. In the 
little pen where prisoners were kept await- 
ing their turn before the magistrate, 
Charlie sat next a perspiring negro, a 
huge brute of a man, who had cut his 
wife’s throat the night before. Outside 
the little iron gate was a bench, reserved 
for female prisoners, now occupied by 


[ 25 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


two women arrayed in tawdry finery 
and broad hats, with bedraggled imitation 
willow plumes. Charlie glanced at them: 
the least depraved reminded him vaguely 
of his mother as she had looked when 
he was a boy. He unbuttoned the dirty 
shirt that covered his thin chest; it was 
suffocatingly hot; and the foul air was 
stifling. 

At half-past ten, the magistrate, a 
corpulent individual whose face looked 
as if it had been freshly boiled, emerged 
from his private office, followed by the 
court clerk. And the morning’s work 
began — sifting through the mass of flot- 
sam and jetsam that had been thrown 
up on the gesticulating tide of humanity 
during the previous day and night. 

There were “con men,” with red neck- 
ties and impudently innocent counte- 


[ 26 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


nances; pickpockets, whose dirty faces 
and weak eyes seemed as trade-marks 
of their lowly occupation; weeping shop- 
lifters, who probably hoped to move the 
bench to leniency through a contrite 
parading of feminine frailty; honest 
looking fellows, whose only crime was 
to have been “a little full” on the pre- 
ceding evening. All were given brief 
hearings and discharged, fined, or held 
for a higher court, as the enormity of 
the offence or standing of the offender’s 
friends might make necessary. 

“Charles Bell, alias James Day, alias 
Chinatown Charlie,” bawled the turn- 
key, a tall blonde man, with a great 
moustache, standing behind the witness 
stand. “Bring him over, Dave.” 

Blinking nervously at the light and 
the loiterers who crowded the rear of 


[ 27 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


the long room with their despicable, 
leering faces, Charlie was led into the 
prisoner’s dock on trembling legs. He 
stood there, leaning against the rail, his 
body swaying. 

An old police reporter leaned toward 
a young man at a neighboring desk, say- 
ing in an undertone: “That’s Chinatown 
Charlie; I remember him when the 
Central Station used to be at Fifth and 
Chestnut; he hasn’t been up for years; 
we’d better take this.’’ 

The young newspaper man was still 
new at City Hall and his feelings had 
not yet been entirely calloused by the 
daily sight of sordidness in misery; his 
only feeling toward these people was one 
of profound commiseration. He con- 
templated Charlie. Could this old man, 
with his tired blue eyes and air of un- 


128 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


affected humility, be a thief? And the 
lowest sort of thief at that, — a pick- 
pocket? Was it a just Power that 
created millions of men in degradation, 
only to watch them live and die there, 
while others were born in security? The 
young man wondered. Suddenly his 
speculation was cut short by the magis- 
trate’s rumbling voice addressing the 
accused: 

“Is your name Charles Bell?’’ 

The old man raised his mild eyes, 
nodding. 

“Is Detective Stanley here?’’ asked the 
judge. 

“Detective Stanley!’’ echoed the turn- 
key. 

The officer stepped into the stand, 
placing his hand on a dog-eared Bible, 
while the magistrate droned forth: 


[291 


FOREORDAINED 


“Do you swear that the evidence you 
shall give in the matter before me now 
shall be the truth, the whole truth, and 
nothing but the truth, so help you God?” 
Then: 

“Where did you get this man?” 

“Nint* and Market; he wuz in a crowd 
there and a party had reported the loss 
of a pocketbook thereabout, earlier in 
the morning, and when I took him he 
tried to get away and hit me in the face.” 

“You shouldn’t strike an officer, 
Charlie,” commented the magistrate, 
dryly. 

The prisoner did not reply; he con- 
tinued to gaze straight ahead, as if lost 
in some profound meditation. 

Then the man who had lost his money 
was called — the puffy individual who had 
visited detective headquarters on the 


130 ) 


FOREORDAINED 


previous afternoon. He was not sure 
of anything except that he had lost 
some money; he was quite aware of 
that. He thought it was at Ninth and 
Market Streets, perhaps it was nearer 
Tenth or Eleventh. It was about nine- 
thirty in the morning, or perhaps not so 
late — he had never seen Charlie until 
he met him in the detective bureau — he 
did not know — he wanted his money 
back — if this man took it, why then he 
should be punished. He had never had 
such a thing happen to him before in 
his life, and he was fifty-three years old; 
never. 

The magistrate fanned himself a mo- 
ment and sighed, as he observed with 
bovine gravity: 

‘This man is an old hand. I remember 
arresting him myself when I was a patrol- 


[ 31 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


man in the Fifteenth. Let’s hear what 
Weaver has about him.” 

“Record Detective Weaver,” bawled 
the turnkey. 

Thereupon, a small, atrophied man, 
dressed in a suit of the same dull grey 
hue as his eyes, stepped into the stand, 
unrolling a number of papers before him. 

“Give us what you have about this 
fellow 1” 

The little man coughed, took up one 
of the sheets, and began to read in a 
dry, precise, even voice: 

“In 1865 he was arrested in this city — 
larceny — sent to State reformatory — 
escaped. 

“In 1876 — picking pockets — one year, 
G)unty Jail. 

“In 1880 — Chouse breaking — two years. 
Eastern Penitentiary.” 


( 32 ) 


FOREORDAINED 


At this juncture the little man was 
again attacked by a fit of coughing, the 
sound of which echoed about the room, 
now strangely hushed. Hardened crim- 
inals, supposed to be destitute of finer 
feelings, frequently break down when 
their records are being read — the pro- 
ceeding brings to mind so poignantly, 
tersely and bitterly what they have 
been through, epitomizing their lowliness. 
Charlie stood as if he did not hear. The 
detective continued: 

“1882 — suspected of picking pockets — 
one year, County Jail. 

“1887 — larceny — two years. Eastern 
Penitentiary. 

“1889 — ^picking pockets, Albany — three 
years. Sing Sing. 

“1893 — suspected of picking pockets — 
nine months. County Jail. 


[ 33 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


“1895 — picking pockets — seven years, 
Eastern Penitentiary.” 

There was a brief pause, while the little 
detective carefully folded his papers and 
stepped out of the stand. The turnkey 
picked up the Bible, which had fallen 
on the floor. Then the magistrate’s 
voice rang out: 

“There doesn’t seem to be much evi- 
dence here, no use sending this into 
Court : — Three months in the County Jail.** 

“The hearings are all over,** thundered 
the turnkey. “Take him over, Dave.” 

“But — but,” the old man began, nerv- 
ously. And a reserve officer, grabbing 
him by the arm, checked the speech in 
his throat. 

* 4: * ♦ 

Five days after Charlie was com- 
mitted, a period of oppressively hot 


[ 34 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


weather descended upon the city. It 
was July and the very air seemed parched 
and dry from the intense heat. In his 
narrow cell it was indescribable. He 
neither ate nor drank. Sometimes he 
startled his keeper by repeating aloud 
several verses from the Scriptures, ges- 
ticulating wildly in grimly ludicrous ac- 
companiment. 

There came a night when the air in 
his cell was inexpressibly dense; and the 
prisoner breathed with great difficulty. 
For several days he had been feverish. 
Toward eleven o’clock he became highly 
excited; he felt a painful pumping in 
his head, a maddening desire for pure 
air, for freedom. He began to rush 
about the stifling cage. His brain was 
afire. He could not stand it! 

Then, in the still darkness of that 


135 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


dreadful night, a miserable Italian, in 
an adjoining cell, shivered in the heat 
when he heard a cry ring out, a terrible 
cry, followed by the thud of a falling 
body. 

Again all was quiet. 

When the warder opened Charlie’s cell 
in the morning, he found the prisoner 
lying on the stone floor, his arms spread 
out as if in prayer, his eyes rolled back 
in an expression of fear, distorting the 
wan face horribly. 

Curious, the man touched one of the 
rigid hands. And as it was quite cold, 
he called an assistant to help remove the 
body. 


[361 


DOUBT 



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DOUBT 


T he Churchills had been married 
seven years. Acquaintances knew 
little of their private life, since, 
being a happy one, it had no history. 
And their home stood as a perpetual 
contradiction to all those malign, en- 
venomed shafts of cynicism which are 
ever being launched at matrimony. 

Frederick Churchill had married Louise 
because he loved her, — tenderly, pro- 
foundly, jealously, as only persons of 
considerable intellectual depth can love. 
Like all men deeply infatuated, he be- 
lieved his wife to be just as adorable in 
the eyes of others as in his own; he did 
not doubt that many stood in readiness 
to snatch her from him, should she 


[ 39 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


extend so much as a suggestion of an 
encouraging advance. And when at 
the theatre, or in a cafe, Frederick inter- 
cepted a glance of admiration cast in 
his wife’s direction, he became vaguely 
enraged, as if the impudent stranger’s 
gaze rested upon her with a physical 
contact. 

Louise was one of those gentle, well- 
formed women, voluptuously beautiful, 
who inhabit the eventide musings of 
sensitive men and whom they meet so 
seldom, — one of those rare beings, who 
seem to have been brought into this 
shaggy world of ignoble strife through 
a mistake of destiny, or perhaps for some 
nobler use than that of regenerating a 
sadly varying species. Some women 
are like that. There are certain women 
whom the finer sense refuses to accept 


[ 40 ] 


DOUBT 


as having been created for such base 
purposes, like those luxuriant trees which 
bear no prized fruit but are cherished for 
their original beauty alone, and to whom 
a man’s touch is a profanation; women 
upon whom Nature has lavished all the 
lacking charm of the multitudinous un- 
lovely; women so delicately moulded, 
with such an elusive, fragrant sweetness 
that the momentary presence of one of 
them puzzles and anaesthetizes the will of 
the susceptive male beholder, as some 
exquisite distillment, leaving him with 
a wistful impression of having looked 
upon the embodiment of all promised 
bliss. Such beings are exceptional, per- 
haps not unfortunately. And those that 
do exist are seldom appreciated, save 

for their purely animal loveliness. 
***** 


[411 


FOREORDAINED 


“Where are you going, Louise?” 

They were in the library. Fred- 
erick sat at a small writing table 
with his head cushioned on his right 
arm as he spoke. She finished but- 
toning her long chamois gloves and 
smoothed down the skirt of her close- 
fitting blue suit, before replying. Then, 
slipping her arms about his neck, she 
said: 

“To my sister Emily’s, sweetheart.” 

There was something in her manner 
of pronouncing his name and the simple 
term of endearment, — which has a unique 
significance for each pair of lovers and 
never becomes trite, — that satisfied some 
intangible craving, warming his veins, 
even after seven years of constant com- 
panionship. He patted her cheek through 
her veil. 


1421 


DOUBT 


“My sweetest will not stay away long? 
I am so lonely without her.” 

She kissed him three times on the eyes 
and mouth, and then left the room, his 
contemplative gaze following her through 
the door. 

Frederick returned to his writing. 
What a perfect being Louise was, — a 
flower among weeds! He arose, threw 
a log on the glowing wood fire, walked 
to the front window and back, and again 
resumed his work. 

Churchill was a young man; but he 
had matured early, and there were a 
few fugitive grey hairs at his temples; 
but his eyes, true indices to personality, 
were those of a poetic youth. His ex- 
pression, as he sat before the fire, was 
such as a sunny day in early autumn 
might wear, if it had a face. 


143 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


For almost an hour there was no 
sound, save the regular scratching of 
the pen across paper and the intermit- 
tent crackling of the flames in the red 
grate. Occasionally the man paused 
and looked into the fire. 

The door opened and a dark-eyed boy 
of six, neatly dressed in a suit of blue 
and white linen with brown stockings, 
entered. He trotted toward Frederick, 
leaning affectionately against his knee. 
Patting the little head gently, the man 
raised the child to his lap. 

“Such a nice little boy that Papa has,” 
he said. 

Evening was approaching; and soon 
a myriad lights began to flash out over 
the vast city and along the avenue full 
of snorting automobiles and hurrying 
pedestrians, below the library window. 


[ 44 ] 


DOUBT 


Vague shadows quivered across the room, 
and in the corner farthest from the light 
pieces of furniture assumed strange 
shapes. The child held the other’s hand 
more tightly. Together they stood near 
the window, in the decreasing light, 
peering down at the stream of vehicles, 
watching, until one of the pulsating 
machines stopped before their home and 
Louise emerged from it, her white cloak 
fluttering in the breeze. 

ii: 4: * 

Several days later, Frederick met his 
sister-in-law, Emily, on an elevator of 
a downtown office building. She alighted 
at the same floor, and talked for a few 
moments before leaving him. 

“You are almost a stranger, Fred. 
How’s Lou? Do tell her to come to 
see me; I haven’t laid eyes on her for 


[ 45 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


three whole weeks. I can’t imagine where 
she’s been keeping herself.” 

“But she was at your home only three 
days ago!” 

“No.” 

“Oh, well, I suppose I misunderstood; 
I thought she said she was going to see 
you. I’ll give her your message. Good- 
bye.” 

He walked down the glistening marble 
corridor toward the office of his attorney, 
pausing before the door. But he could 
not remember why he had come! 

Louise had, — but what a fool he was 
to entertain such a thought. She had 
simply changed her mind and called on 
someone else; she had so many friends. 
Still 

He tried to dismiss the occurrence; 
but the thought kept recurring all day. 


1461 


DOUBT 


When he went home to dinner, his wife 
had not yet arrived. From the maid 
he learned that she had gone to have 
a new gown fitted. Louise came in, 
looking rather tired, he thought. 

“Anything extremely unpleasant hap- 
pen to-day, dearest?” he asked. 

She raised her wide blue eyes, speak- 
ing rather quickly: “Oh, no, nothing. 
IVe just been calling on that horrid Mrs. 
Frazer. I detest her, but somehow I 
have to go there.” 

“But I thought you saw her Thurs- 
day?” 

“Oh gracious no; I told you that 
I went to Emily’s Thursday afternoon.” 

A glass of claret dropped from his 
hand, soaking into the cloth under and 
about his plate. 

“How stupidly awkward of me!” 


[ 47 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


The serving-maid silently covered the 
stain with a napkin. Churchill laughed, 
nervously. He began to talk of trivial- 
ities; his face brightening, an almost 
hectic flush overspread his features. But 
by a strong effort he succeeded in repres- 
sing his agitation so that Louise appar- 
ently failed to observe it. 

They went into the library. Frederick 
took up a book, turning the pages ab- 
sently, without comprehending the mean- 
ing of a single sentence, while he battled 
with incertitude. Should he tell of his 
meeting with Em.ily? Should he ask 
Louise why she had deliberately lied to 
him? But by so doing he would simply 
put her on her guard if, — if there was 
anything. He despised himself for per- 
mitting his mind to harbour such a 
thought; but he did not speak of Emily. 


[ 48 ] 


DOUBT 


He looked up at Louise; she was 
seated at the piano listlessly running 
through a nocturne her husband loved. 
Usually he would stand near the instru- 
ment when she played, touching her hair 
from time to time with his lips; but 
to-night he did not. His wife, like all 
women, quick to perceive the slightest 
variation in her husband’s moods, ran 
over and sat in his lap, holding his head 
between her cool, plump arms. 

“Has my preciousest boy been worry- 
ing about anything?” 

She cuddled her head against his 
shoulder while she spoke in a soft, almost 
purring tone. Frederick assured her 
that nothing was wrong. And they 
retired. 

Since the day of their marriage the 
Churchills had not passed a night apart. 


[ 49 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


Their bed-chamber contained the thou- 
sand intangible refinements which in- 
variably distinguish good taste from bad. 
Often they sat in the antique rocker 
near the window, looking out on the 
lighted avenue, while he stroked her 
hair, kissing her fervently with those 
impulsive, burning kisses of a man al- 
most too much in love. But his was 
not a vulgar, bestial nature responsive 
only to sensuality; and all those subtly 
intoned compliments and tender caresses, 
so dear to the feminine heart, with which 
fine souls awaken the dormant sensibilities 
of women, were showered upon Louise. 

To-night he sat at the window, while 
she laboriously unfastened that row of 
hooks which the modiste seems to make 
difficult of solution with almost super- 
human cunning. Before, he would have 


[501 


DOUBT 


assisted at this operation, punctuating 
his endeavours by kissing her neck. 
Now, he did not seem to be interested. 

“Is my poor boy feeling sad?’* she 
asked, pinching his cheek. Her mouth 
was near his face, and he could feel a 
soft breath against his flesh; but his 
only reply was to stroke her arm with 
his hand. 

Several hours later Louise awoke with 
a start, as if from a wild dream. Reach- 
ing over to touch her husband, her hand 
fell on the cold sheet. Then she saw 
his huddled figure in the chair near the 
window. 

“Frederick, is anything wrong?’’ 

“No. A slight headache bothered me. 
It is gone now.’’ 

After evincing some concern and offer- 
ing to get something for his head, Louise 


[511 


FOREORDAINED 


soon fell asleep. Frederick lay beside 
her, wide awake; he was not comfort- 
able; he turned over, then back again. 
His mind was in a pitiable turmoil. She, 
this woman at his side whom he adored 
with such passionate fondness, was a 
liar. All people were liars. But why 
had she lied to him? What did it signify? 
Where had she been that afternoon? 
Vague recollections of men she had 
known during that hated pre-existence 
before their engagement sprang up in 
his perfervid brain, like spirits disen- 
tombed. Could it be possible that 
McMahon, Roberts or Stanley — ? No, 
by God, his Louise was too pure, too 
sainted; it could not be so. 

A night breeze, floating through the 
open window, caressed his face; it felt 
cold, like the kiss of a corpse. The 


152 ] 


DOUBT 


woman at his side tossed uneasily in her 
sleep, murmuring something that sounded 
like a name, — but it was not his own. 
Of whom did she dream? All sorts of 
unpleasant fancies battled and conquered 
his explanatory tendencies. Toward 
morning he fell into a confused slumber; 
but his thoughts pursued him into his 
sleep, and he had fearful visions of a 
monster, with the heads of seven men 
he knew, dancing with Louise, — knavish 
looking fellows they were, grossly hor- 
rible caricatures of the friends they 
resembled. He reached out to grasp 
the grotesque’s seven necks, when he 
awoke, a chill perspiration bathing his 
face. 

What a night! 

Next morning he firmly resolved to 
banish these damning doubts. If she 


153 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


had forgotten, or lied purposely! Well, 
hadn’t he ever deceived her in small 
things which amounted to nothing? He 
had been worrying over a triviality. 
Was it not a fact that all women, even 
the best, were unconscious masters of 
dissimulation, and that a falsehood came 
easier to their lips than the truth? He 
would lay these unjust suspicions. 

At breakfast, he spoke with animation 
to his wife and child. It was a sparkling 
sunlight morning. Frederick smiled as 
he kissed them good-bye for the day. 
Then he hurried toward that bewilder- 
ing melee generally designated as “down- 
town,” to attend some matters of business. 

He was in his attorney’s office until 
noon. From force of habit, rather than 
hunger, he went to lunch. As he strolled 
along the street his eye was arrested by 


154 ] 


DOUBT 


a sight seemingly familiar. Could it 
be possible? Was that his wife’s hat he 
saw disappearing through the door of 
a fashionable cafe, in front of that vul- 
gar-looking man with fat jowls? No it 
could not be; but 

He rushed to a telephone booth, called 
his home and breathlessly asked for Mrs. 
Churchill. When she answered, he felt 
confusedly ashamed, and stammered 
something about fearing he had neglected 
to supply her with money for the week. 

“But I have my cheque-book,” she 
replied, puzzled. 

In a nearby cafe, he dashed down three 
glasses of whiskey to quell his embarrass- 
ment. He went home, two hours later, 
his fears smothered. He felt calm once 
more. Louise met him in the hall. 
And as he embraced her, with accustomed 


[ 55 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


tenderness, there was a slight crackling 
in the bosom of her dress. 

“What was that?” 

“Oh — just a letter.” 

They went to dinner. So Louise had 
a letter which she carried in her bosom! 
He remembered that during their engage- 
ment she had always kept his notes there. 
And had she not been a bit disconcerted 
when speaking of the letter? Or had 
he imagined it? 

Little Lawrence was prattling, but for 
a time Frederick did not hear what he 
said. Finally he raised his head and 
looked at the boy. 

Frederick’s hair was of a rich brown 
colour. His wife’s almost golden. The 
child’s locks were raven black. 

Churchill found it impossible to make 
more than a weak pretense of eating. 


[ 56 ] 


DOUBT 


To his wife’s queries he pleaded another 
attack of indigestion. He needed a 
little rest, — that was all; his illness would 
be gone in the morning. 

As time passed, Churchill strove in 
vain to ward off the attacks of irresolute 
distrust; but he would dismiss one 
revolting idea only to find others crowd- 
ing about, like heads of the hydra. His 
vivid imagination involuntarily sum- 
moned the most frightful visions that 
ever tortured a jealous heart. And 
these suspicious fears became architec- 
tonic, almost integrating into conviction. 

Louise had told him of several little 
friendships she had made previous to 
their acquaintance, harmless enough in 
themselves, although they had made 
him uncomfortable even at the time. 
Now, he remembered with alarming clar- 


[ 57 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


ity each of his wife’s little narrations. 
But had she told him all! How many 
friendships were there that he knew not 
of? Why were young girls permitted 
to associate with men other than their 
future husbands? Could it be possible 
that Louise was carrying on a despicable 
intrigue? He had always heard and read 
that husbands were generally the last 
to realize the existence of such affairs. 
Where had she been that afternoon? 
Suppose he asked her! — and warn her, 
if she were guilty. It would simply put 
her on her guard. No, he must wait. 

These febriferous imaginings gradually 
overpowered him. At times, seen through 
a red haze of doubt, Louise seemed trans- 
formed before his eyes — a vicious, smiling 
wanton assuming the shape of a cher- 
ished Aglaia. The rank, branching 


158 ] 


DOUBT 


growth of Doubt overspread his love 
for Louise, as a clump of nettles some- 
times conceals the consummate flower, 
paralyzing all joy of mutual affection. 
Had this profound love been granted 
only to torture him, that he might suffer 
the most unutterable anguish, that he 
might experience a thousand mental 
hells? Knowledge of infidelity would 
be less to endure than this permanent 
uncertainty. 

He began to neglect his business in- 
terests. Friends, noticing his changed 
demeanour and attributing it to ill health, 
suggested a change — a European tour, 
or six months in the country. He 
stayed at home more — to watch his 
wife, fearing that she might deceive 
him. Had she not evinced an inordinate 
fondness for the work of that young 


[ 59 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


painter, what was his name? Or per- 
haps it was some musician, some poet. 
He felt a species of resentment toward 
all men possessed of talents lacked by 
himself. Louise liked music; perhaps 
love of that art might easily be trans- 
ferred to the artist. Every word, every 
act of hers he would now construe into 
some dark significance. If she remained 
away from home for an entire afternoon, 
he could scarcely contain his restive 
suspicions. Sometimes he would call a 
taxicab and follow her automobile about 
the city. Once she stayed in a house 
for more than two hours and a half. 
That evening, at dinner, he carelessly 
asked where she had been during the 
day. 

“Getting fitted for a new suit.” 

One morning he saw the maid hand 


160 ] 


DOUBT 


Louise an envelope, outside the dining- 
room door. Their custom was to have 
the mail brought in at breakfast. He 
could not understand why Nona should 
have slipped that envelope into her mis- 
tress’ hand, instead of placing it beside 
her plate, as usual. Was she really 
getting letters which she feared to open 
before him? 

Well, he would see. 

As soon as Louise was safely out of 
the house, he ran up to her little sitting- 
room, and tried the lid of her desk. It 
was locked. He discovered the key in 
a card tray, nearby. For a moment he 
hesitated. Then he hastily set to work, 
pulling out the contents of pigeon-holes 
— letters, scented notes, dilapidated photo- 
graphs, bits of lace and silk, an old dance 
program, a lock of hair in a blue envelope. 


[611 


FOREORDAINED 


He sorted them carefully. Many of the 
letters were dismissed with a glance. 
One attracted him. It was from a man 
of whom he had never heard and had 
been written six years before — less than 
seven months subsequent to their mar- 
riage. Who was this writing to his wife, 
using her Christian name? A diligent 
perusal of the faded missive, clasped in 
his damp hand, revealed no word of love 
or dishonour; it was simply a friendly 
letter. But would a worthy woman 
permit men to write to her without her 
husband’s knowledge? Or had it been 
so unimportant that she had merely for- 
gotten to tell him? 

Minute examination of the pile dis- 
closed nothing of further interest. 
Strange, there were no letters of more 
recent date! Kneeling on the floor. 


[621 


DOUBT 


his trousers covered with dust from the 
disturbed papers, he began to rummage 
through the desk’s lower drawers. Two 
contained nothing but trash. At the 
bottom of the last, however, he found 
a pile of thin note-books and a black 
tin box. These he lifted out. Taking 
up one of the volumes, casually opening 
it in the middle, he read, in his wife’s 
hand: 

Sunday 

I am disappointed to-day. Fred 'phoned that 
he was called out of town on business and would 
not be able to see me this week. I will not see 
him for six whole days. 

Her diaries! His eyes were alight 
with the excitement of fresh discovery. 
Now he would see, he would seel Eagerly, 
he looked at the date, — eight years old, 
— during their engagement. He searched 


[ 63 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


through the pile for newer records; but 
they were all still older; she had evi- 
dently kept no diary after their marriage. 
Hope sank. He idly picked up the old- 
est of the books, in which were set down 
the semi-childish desires of a sixteen-year- 
old heart. 

Opening another, at random, he found 
that she had written, two years before 
meeting him: 

June 19 

I am sure my beloved cares for me, even 
though we must part. He is the only man I 
ever loved, or ever will love. I will be true to 
that love. I will never marry another. I hope 
he thinks of me sometimes. 

The words blurred before him: he 
fell, his head striking the side of a rocking- 
chair. Louise loved 

She who had seemed so innocent, so 


[ 64 ] 


DOUBT 


charmingly fresh, so ingenuous, she had 
loved another! His Louise! 

But this had been years before, he 
reasoned; could it not be possible for 
a woman, a very young woman, to 
imagine herself in love, just as a young 
man frequently does? Surely, surely he 
had cared for none of the silly creatures 
to whom he had paid homage during the 
days of his youth! If he had had senti- 
mental experiences, why could he not 
forget hers? She had never been untrue 
to him. Had she? 

But he could not convince himself 
that she had been fair. Prior to his 
marriage, Frederick had led pretty much 
the same life as the ordinary young man 
with a generous allowance. But he had 
held nothing from Louise; he had con- 
fessed everything, insisting all the while 


[ 65 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


that he was unworthy of her. Had she 
really loved him, keeping silence regarding 
this other affair for fear he would suffer? 

With a racking pain in his head, he 
resumed reading; the diaries fascinated 
him; and he perused every page. Some 
time before meeting Frederick she had 
written: 

I have not seen my darling for years. I still 
think of him, often. But somehow his face has 
faded from me; I cannot recall his features. I 
wish he had not left me. Perhaps it is better so. 

September 27 

Last night Mrs. Holden introduced me to a 
young man named Churchill. He did not seem 
the least bit interested, paid me no compliments, 
and talked of literature and music the whole 
evening. I liked him. Mama says he has lots 
of money. Odd. I never met a man quite 
like him before. 


[ 66 ] 


DOUBT 


A week later: 

I think Mr. Churchill is a nice boy; he has 
sweet eyes. I like to hear him talk, too. 

That was all. In succeeding entries 
he was alluded to as Mr. Churchill, and 
after their engagement as Frederick. 
Never a word of affection in these con- 
fidences to her soul. She “liked” him. 
And she had lodcd that unknown. 

He finished the book. Then his eyes 
chanced upon the little tin box on the 
floor. He took it up, trying the lid; 
turning it over he heard something fall 
from side to side. Deftly prying off the 
lid with his knife, he drew forth the 
contents, — a bundle of envelopes tied 
with a pink ribbon. Trembling, he tore 
the frail band apart, the crisp, dry papers 
fluttering about him in dusty array. 


[ 67 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


The handwriting was familiar, — his own 
letters! 

He sat at her desk, clasping his throb- 
bing head for several moments, before 
starting the sad task of replacing every- 
thing in the drawers and pigeon-holes, 
near as possible as he had found them. 

He felt ashamed of his performance. 
So he had stooped to this! But what 
matter? Louise did not love him, she 
never had, and never would love him. 

When Mrs. Churchill came in for din- 
ner that evening she found her husband 
sitting by the fire in the library, lost in 
a tenebrous stupor. With a visible 
effort, he pulled himself together and 
followed her into the dining room, si- 
lently, and without kissing her, without 
pressing her hand, without speaking. 

She wore a becoming evening gown of 


[ 68 ] 


DOUBT 


black chiffon, cut low, displaying her 
alluring throat and shoulders. And as 
he contemplated her charms, he recog- 
nized the birth of pains of which he 
had hitherto never suspected the exist- 
ence. How many others had kissed those 
lips, those eyes, those shoulders? Per- 
haps that very afternoon. 

He feared that his trepidation must 
soon become discernible. 

Feigning not to perceive his dismal 
silence, Louise chatted gaily, evinced an 
interest in his affairs of business, smiled 
when she received no reply, advised him 
to take something for his indisposition 
before retiring. She was going to play 
bridge with some friends to-night. It 
was too bad that Fred felt tired and 
unwell. Couldn't he join her though, 
just for an hour? 


[691 


FOREORDAINED 


He was still seated at the table, his 
left hand clutching the cloth, when she 
departed, leaving him free to give vent 
to his ill-suppressed mental agitation. 
Was he going mad? 

He must get something to drink im- 
mediately; that would afford temporary 
relief at least. The whiskey decanter on 
the buffet was empty. Hastily he pulled 
on his overcoat, hat and gloves, to stalk 
forth into the tranquil night. He walked 
in the direction of a fashionable cafe, 
met an acquaintance at the bar, and 
joined him in a drink. And then an- 
other. 

Taking leave of his friend, he wandered 
away from travelled thoroughfares, into 
the poorer district. What squalor, what 
wretchedness! The earth was, after all, 
but a diseased thing. He felt a strange 


[ 70 ] 


DOUBT 


prompting to move on, to get away 
from familiar scenes. A glaring elec- 
tric sign loomed up ahead. He entered 
the saloon and bought several drinks, 
while two workmen, leaning over the 
sloppy bar, stared intently at his even- 
ing clothes and silk hat. Leaving a 
half-finished high ball, he sauntered 
out, drawn on by a controlling 
impulse, to explore still farther. On 
and on he wandered, penetrating a 
glittering maze of cheap theatres and 
bare saloons, seemingly bent upon drown- 
ing his tormenting doubts in a perpetual 
carouse. 

Once he paused in the street, gazing 
up at the stars, rapt in a profound cos- 
mogonal meditation. It was one of those 
crisp, cold nights when each glimmering 
orb in the celestial sphere, seen through 


[ 71 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


a rarified atmosphere, seems to gain 
intensity, and space itself appears more 
than ever appalling in its mysterious, 
limitless expanse. 

The star-sprinkled sky was awesome. 
Could there be a merciful God behind 
all that? Or was the Creator some 
malign energy, who found joy in contem- 
plation of this earthly spectacle where 
the powerful triumph over the weak, 
great honour is paid the least honourable, 
the contumacious rich deride the humble, 
and chaotic evil reigns supreme! He 
wondered. But was it God’s fault — 
this world of incongruous frailties and 
contrasts? Had he not made men as 
animals, and had they not advanced to 
this state of extreme sensitiveness and 
intense capacity for pain and pleasure 
through their own persistent efforts? 


[ 72 ) 


DOUBT 


The words of the Preacher recurred to 
him: 

“Lo, and this only have I seen: God 
has made man upright; but they have 
sought out many inventions.” 

What a rebuke to human achieve- 
ment! He staggered on. 

At each saloon, exhibiting a loquacity 
engendered of alcohol, with a glass of 
dirty brew grasped in his hand, he would 
begin an earnest conversation with who- 
ever happened to be at the bar; and, 
since he generously radiated change for 
drinks, he had a growing audience. Some- 
times he plunged into a muddled, extem- 
poraneous plaint. Great phrases battled 
for expression; but he could not frame 
in words the tithe of what he felt. In 
the midst of such a jumbled harangue, 
he would shamble out through the swing- 


[731 


FOREORDAINED 


ing doors, telling his “friends” that he 
had a pressing engagement elsewhere. 

Later, he grew maudlin, his oratorical 
efforts unintelligible. But his appear- 
ance commanded respect. And a friendly 
bartender, after preparing “something to 
fix him up,” offered him a cot in a 
little room in the rear of the establish- 
ment. 

When he awoke, the morning sunlight 
was streaming through the cobwebs of 
a small window. He felt a dull hammer- 
ing inside his head, a nauseous weakness 
at the stomach. On a rude chair near 
the improvised bed he found his hat and 
overcoat. His pocketbook was still in 
its place, untouched. On legs that 
shook, he staggered from the place. He 
hailed a taxicab, which for some un- 
accountable reason was speeding through 


[ 74 ] 


DOUBT 


that street, and rode home toward a 
more comfortable couch, his head and 
stomach protesting at every jolt. 

It was long past noon when Frederick 
again awakened. The dull pain in his 
head was almost gone, but his mouth 
still felt thick and dry. Mrs. Churchill 
had gone out more than an hour ago, 
the maid told him. He thought he 
detected an air of mystery in the girl’s 
manner, and, unable to repress his chol- 
eric curiosity, burst out: 

“See here, Nona, what’s going on in 
this house? Tell me, I am master here, 
or you’ll get out to-day. Damned if 
I intend to be hoodwinked. Where did 
your mistress go? And what ’’ 

Frightened, the girl ran from the 
room. 

“Another of my fool tricks; she’ll 


[ 75 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


have some nice talk now to spread. 
But what difference?” 

Frederick walked quietly to his wife’s 
sitting-room. He wanted to have an- 
other look at that desk. It was locked, 
as on the previous day. But the key 
was not to be found, even after the 
most diligent search. All the lower 
drawers were secured. 

“Um,” he ejaculated aloud, “so she 
didn’t fancy my rummaging. But per- 
haps she thinks it was Nona.” He 
smiled, mirthlessly. 

He began a furious search for the 
missing key — upsetting the dressing-table, 
clothes-box, bureau. Persisting, he 
opened a closet in their bedroom — on a 
shelf he immediately recognized a book 
of the same size and appearance as those 
found in the desk Expectantly he 


176 ] 


DOUBT 


pulled it down — Louise’s diary for the 
current year. His knees trembling, he 
turned the leaves rapidly to the date 
when she had deceived him about calling 
on Emily, and read: 

October 12. 

Called on Nettie Tyler to-day, in the after- 
noon. Didn’t tell Fred though, he hates her 
so, he doesn’t know how I loved her before 
our marriage. I told him I went to Elmily’s; 
perhaps it was wrong. 

For a full minute he stood, dazed. 
What an ass he had been! To suspect 
the purest and dearest of women of any 
act unworthy of — But he paused. Doubt 
returned. The ink! The ink in which 
these words were written retained a lustre 
indicating that the entry had only re- 
cently been set down. Nothing had 
been written either above or below this 


[ 77 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


paragraph; Louise had apparently made 
no other records in her diary for some 
weeks before and after October 12. 
Rushing to his own desk in the library, 
he unearthed a letter received on the 
same day. The address on the envelope 
was already faded. The ink in the book 
was bright. 

He stepped back, his face blanched, 
gasping: 

“So — so she — she locked the desk that 
I might look for the key, and find ihisr 

In his room, he discovered a bottle 
half filled with whiskey, of which he 
swallowed several glasses in succession, 
to numb his maddening thoughts. 

At dinner, Louise, as on the preceding 
evening, exhibited a tendency toward 
gaiety. She played with Lawrence, who 
had been permitted to dine with his 


[ 78 ] 


DOUBT 


parents, spoke spiritedly to her husband, 
asked how his new investments were 
materializing, smiled and laughed the 
entire evening. Could it be possible? 
This girl a faithless wife? No! But 
when there were so many facts to indi- 
cate — He writhed at the thought. Law- 
rence dropped a dish on the floor; it 
fell with a noisy clatter, breaking into 
several pieces. 

“For God’s sake, take that noisy brat 
away, won’t you, Louise?’’ Frederick 
broke out. 

Then, startled by her look of amaze- 
ment and pain, he left the room. 

That night, shortly after the clock 
over the mantel-piece struck eleven, 
Louise came to her husband, who was 
seated at his desk, supporting his head 
with both hands. She twined her arms 


[ 79 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


about his neck, kissing his lips and eyes. 
For a brief instant he felt all his old 
tenderness going out to her; he longed 
to take this soft, yielding, beautiful 
creature in his arms and crush her. But 
only for an instant. Had she ever be- 
stowed similar favours upon other lips 
and eyes? He started back, freeing his 
head. 

“Why does my boy shrink from 
me? Doesn’t he care for his little 
girl any more?’* She spoke in those 
sonorous tones that had charmed him, 
years ago. 

He made no reply. Casting her en- 
treating arms away almost roughly, he 
walked to the window, striving to con- 
trol his violent emotions. 

“Frederick! Frederick!’’ Her changed 
tone, now almost shrill, made him turn 


180 ] 


DOUBT 


sharply. “You are killing me. What 
has happened? My husband, you push 
me from you, you desert me, you — 
Oh, why is it?“ 

And rushing forward, she threw her- 
self into his arms, eagerly seeking his lips. 
Something within the man snapped, like 
a violin string subjected to too severe a 
tension. He seized her wrists, his eyes 
dilated, exclaiming in a vibrant, bitter 
voice: 

“You damned fiend!” 

“Frederick, stop!” 

“You have tortured me for months, 
but by ” 

He never finished the speech. Louise 
had fallen on the floor, laughing, horrible 
freezing laughter, her shoulders shaking 
convulsively, her tears drenching the 
rug. For another instant he wavered. 


[ 81 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


before taking the gasping, weeping woman 
into his arms. 

He was a scoundrel, he was worse than 
that; he would make his future life an 
atonement for the suffering he had caused 
her. She clung to him, burying her lips 
in his cheek, but uttered no sound. He 
felt the irregular beating of her heart. 

She complained, feebly, of great weak- 
ness. He helped her to bed. She ap- 
peared to be in great pain and her breath- 
ing was laboured. Frederick rang for 
the chauffeur, telling him to hurry for 
their physician. 

Pale, her eyes aglitter, the woman 
rose in bed: 

“Frederick, what have I done? What 
have I done?” 

And as he waited, his mind a turmoil, 
she repeated, softly, as if it were a litany: 


1821 


DOUBT 


“What have I done? What have I 
done?” 

Then she fell asleep. Frederick sat 
down at the foot of her bed. Would 
the doctor never come? 

He did arrive. Taking the woman’s 
hand in his, he raised his eyes quickly, 
and felt her chest. After a short exami- 
nation, he placed his hand on Frederick’s 
shoulder and gravely told him the truth. 

Louise was dead. The end had prob- 
ably come ten minutes before the phy- 
sician’s arrival. She had been suffering 
from acute indigestion, and her heart, 
never strong, had suddenly given away, 
probably as a result of some sudden 
shock. 

Frederick bowed his head, but said 
nothing. His appearance was such as 
to startle the doctor out of his profes- 


[ 83 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


sional complacency. He was responsible 
for this thing; he had killed his wife. 
But even at that moment his overwrought 
mind framed the question: 

“What did she mean by those last 
words? Was it not a confession?” 

His reason, struck at the root, tottered 
dangerously, but did not collapse. The 
doctor led him into the dining-room, and 
after urging him to take a few swallows 
of brandy, left him — alone. 

For several days he wandered, as if 
in a coma, unable to comprehend what 
was going on about him. He thought of 
Louise. Everywhere he saw reminders 
of her sweet presence — in the library, 
in the garden, in all a thousand poig- 
nant glimpses of her dainty touch, which 


[ 84 ] 


DOUBT 


seemed parts of her left behind. The 
good doctor induced him to arrange for 
a trip abroad — to forget. He consented; 
he did not care. 

The hour of the funeral arrived. And 
together Frederick and Lawrence stood 
in the darkened drawing-room beside the 
casket, looking for one last time into 
that cold, still face, supernally beautiful 
in death. The little boy started to cry 
in great choking sobs. The man con- 
tinued to look down at the immobile 
features, with an expressionless gaze. 
What did it all mean, this problem of 
existence? Why should this woman — 
this rare flower, have been born simply 
to suffer and die? 

Reverently he kissed the frozen lips, 
mingling his tears with those of the 
black-haired child. He was overcome. 


[ 85 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


numbed by sorrow, by grief, by vain 
regret. But in the depths of his heart 
there yet lurked an unconquerable Doubt 


THE HAT 


THE HAT 


E very morning, on her way to the 
laundry, Vera would pause for a 
few moments in front of the mil- 
liner’s shop on Eighth Street, to look at 
the hat. 

It was such a pretty, daintily made 
thing, yet so modest and not at all loud 
— like shy little Vera herself. It looked 
so attractive with its neat white tulle 
trimming and knot of the same creamy 
fabric supporting a delicately shaded 
pink rose. Such a rose! And the price 
was only eight dollars. Eight dollars! 
It might have been eight hundred. A 
girl earning seven dollars a week, which, 
with the few extra quarters she might 
procure by doing embroidery and fancy 


[ 89 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


work in the evenings, must support her- 
self and her invalid mother, cannot con- 
sider eight-dollar hats. Never! 

Other girls at the Crown Laundry, 
girls who went into the amusement parks 
at night, wore expensive, luridly trimmed 
hats; but none of them appealed to 
Vera; hers was not an envious heart. 
Although the eminently desirable crea- 
tion in the milliner’s window was not 
for her, none could deny her the genuine 
satsifaction of contemplating it, as it 
hung there so bewitchingly beautiful 
among its gaudy companions. And in 
the mornings when Vera adjusted her 
own plain black sailor at the mirror of 
her mother’s prized walnut chiffonier, 
she was free to imagine just how that 
other hat, with the soft, foamy trimming, 
would look in its place. 


[ 90 ] 


THE HAT 


Vera Schultz and her mother inhabited 
a clean little room over a grocery store, 
which they rented, unfurnished, for one 
dollar and a half a week. Their room 
had a single curtainless window, opening 
upon an unkempt back yard in which 
weeds and rank grass grew up between 
disordered heaps of old bottles and other 
trash, and where dirty-faced, ragged 
children scrambled about, shouting all 
day long. There were few furnishings, 
but they were generally dustless. In 
a closet near the window Vera had in- 
stalled a single-burner gas stove on 
which she prepared two meals daily. 
On the walls, hiding the stained, blotchy 
paper at intervals, hung an enlarged 
photograph of Vera’s deceased father; 
a spectacular picture of the battle of 
Santiago, done in four colours, that had 


[ 91 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


been obtained with a Sunday newspaper; 
a portrait of a world-famous actress from 
the same source — and suspended from a 
nail over the head of the bed a sombre 
grey bag, a receptacle for soiled gar- 
ments and various odds and ends. On 
the mantel-shelf, the only ornament was 
a post-card likeness of Vera, taken in 
that dim past “while Father was living,” 
when the family had occupied a two- 
story brick house in West Philadelphia — 
an abode which gained in palatial gran- 
deur each succeeding year that they existed 
away from it. The tall walnut chiffonier 
was the sole remaining substantial relic 
of those prosperous days. 

Even on the brightest days of spring 
it never became quite light in this room. 
And there, in that perpetual twilight, 
Mrs. Schultz, her legs useless, sat in a 


[ 92 ] 


THE HAT 


wheel-chair, from quarter of eight in 
the morning until twenty minutes past 
six at night — waiting for Vera. Some- 
times little Miriam, the landlady’s 
daughter, would help the old lady down 
the stairway, taking great care of the 
paralyzed limbs, for a little trip in the 
wheel-chair through the sun-lit streets. 
But, like most people, even this gentle, 
obliging child was too preoccupied to 
devote much time to a lonely invalid; 
and consequently these occasional treats 
were rare. 

On Sunday, when she was not too tired, 
Vera would wheel her mother into the 
square; and they would sit, silently, 
watching the birds and little children 
who played on the grass in innocent 
defiance of the printed signs. 

4: H: 


[ 93 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


Vera first saw the hat in March, when 
the milliners were beginning to display 
their attractions for the spring season. 
But, although she stopped to gaze hun- 
grily at it every day, she harboured no 
resentment toward Fate because she 
could not purchase it. She could admire 
it all she pleased. Others might buy 
and wear costly hats; but, like those 
artists who derive pleasure from wondrous 
paintings whose millionaire owners lack 
taste enough to appreciate, she could 
enjoy this ravishing one though she 
might never possess it. Still, she fre- 
quently scrutinized the price tag. Eight 
dollars! And any minor alterations in 
the trimming would be made as desired, 
free of charge. 

Often, in the evening, Vera spoke to 
her mother of the “perfectly darling hat“ 


194 ] 


THE HAT 


she saw in the Eighth Street window. 
She remembered everything about it 
down to the minutest detail — the delicate 
creamy tulle of the band, the chic twist 
of the knot on which that exquisite pink 
rose was perched so becomingly. The 
rose simply crowned the manifold beauties 
of the hat. 

“Such a stunning hat, Mother, and so 
gen-teel.” 

During these enthusiastic harangues, 
the pale, thin-faced woman would say: 
“Yes — yes, Vera; yes — my child,” in a 
weak, halting voice, almost heartrending 
in its dominant quality of resigned sad- 
ness. Indeed, the unfortunate invalid 
scarcely ever said anything; her vocal 
chords were in such condition as to make 
any lengthy speech painful; and when 
she talked the words came in jerky little 


[951 


FOREORDAINED 


detachments as if only uttered at all 
with the utmost effort. She would sit 
for hours and hours, this poor woman, 
with her weakened grey eyes fixed upon 
some point on the specked, dark ceiling, 
her hands clasped on her lap, without 
uttering a sound or making a gesture. 

It was the day after Easter, a rainy, 
chilly Monday morning in early April. 
On the previous afternoon it had been 
warm and bright. And Vera had wheeled 
her mother through Rittenhouse Square 
to watch the “society ladies” coming 
from worship — to watch not with envy 
but with admiration these living originals 
of the fashion cuts in the woman’s sec- 
tion of the Sunday newspaper, over 
which Vera always pored with clinging 
interest. And such hats! There had 


1961 


THE HAT 


been an entrancing one, with a real 
ostrich plume, that must have cost more 
than one hundred dollars, Vera thought. 
She knew the plume to be genuine. 
And that one, all pink and purple, like 
an enormous mottled Easter egg! How 
strikingly beautiful they were! How 
they waved and shone in the April 
breeze and sunshine! But in all that 
aristocracy of hats, big and little, grave 
and gay, Vera saw none which she would 
rather have than the modest one with 
its fresh-looking pink rose, in the window 
on Eighth Street. These proud, ensilk- 
ened society ladies had amazingly ornate, 
expensive hats; but her hat was nicer 
than them all. It had a distinctive air 
of rich simplicity, an individuality that 
appealed to Vera’s perception, just as 
the innocent plain face of a simple 


[971 


FOREORDAINED 


country maid will sometimes please a 
poet, unattracted by the refulgent arti- 
ficialities of complex city beauties. And 
she felt very, very happy as she wheeled 
her mother home. 

They had taken a long walk that 
cheerful day, much longer than was their 
custom. 

But now it was morning again. The 
seventy-cent alarm clock on the mantel- 
shelf seemed to ring much earlier than 
ordinarily; but it was six-thirty, just as 
usual. The tired girl dozed for a few 
moments longer. Then she rose, dressed 
sleepily, carefully lifted her mother from 
the bed to the wheel-chair, and, after 
settling her securely in, set about pre- 
paring breakfast — coffee and four rolls 
without butter. Butter was so expen- 
sive. 


[981 


THE HAT 


Vera gulped her coffee and swallowed 
two rolls hurriedly, with an anxious eye 
on the clock; but the mother drank her 
portion with little sips between which 
she would pause to nibble at a roll. She 
seemed to enjoy this simple fare. Eat- 
ing was the one recurring incident to 
break the monotony of her existence, 
since the condition of her eyes did not 
permit of her reading the newspaper 
reports of crimes and accidents, in which 
she had formerly taken a certain grim 
delight. 

During the meal neither spoke. At 
its conclusion Vera said: 

“Fm so late this morning. Mother, 
ril have to let these things and the room 
go until to-night.” 

And after placing two more rolls and 
a pint bottle of milk within her mother’s 


[ 99 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


reach, she kissed the faded sunken cheek, 
snatched up her black sailor, and ran 
downstairs through the gloomy, grey, 
musty hallway, into the street. 

A dreary, chilling rain lashed the 
pavement. The girl walked near the 
walls of the buildings she passed, in an 
effort to prevent her clothing from be- 
coming thoroughly soaked. It is not 
pleasant to work ten hours, making out 
laundry checks in a stuffy office, when 
one’s waist and skirt are dripping. 

For a moment she stopped under the 
awning of the milliner’s store. But the 
tightly drawn curtains prevented her 
fond gaze from resting upon the hat. 
Evidently the thrifty milliner did not 
deem it necessary to open her establish- 
ment very early on the morning after 
Easter. Looking up and down the sloppy. 


[ 100 ] 


THE HAT 


deserted street to assure herself that 
nobody was watching, Vera approached 
the window and endeavoured to peer 
behind the dull green curtain; but the 
interior was almost absolutely dark, and 
she could distinguish nothing save the 
bases of the stands of two hats nearest 
the glass. 

She went on, vaguely uncomfortable 
in mind as well as in body. Through 
the window of a barber shop she saw 
a clock. Twenty minutes past eight! 
Heavens, what would the manager say? 
Gathering up her heavy skirts she hur- 
ried along through the rain, narrowly 
averting a fall into the watery street as 
she stumbled over a car track. 

* H: 

At six o’clock she was through for the 
day, — a day that had somehow seemed 


[1011 


FOREORDAINED 


interminable. In the little employee’s 
cloak room, she hastily arranged her 
thick, dark hair at a cracked mirror, 
before putting on the black straw sailor. 
She felt a keen loathing toward that 
plebeian head dress to-night. Other girls 
had nice hats! Why shouldn’t she? 

The weather had cleared and the 
evening sunshine bathed the rain-soaked 
streets in its warm radiance. Under 
Vera’s feet the bricks, still wet, glistened; 
and in a sparkling puddle she saw a 
grotesque image of herself. Wearily, 
she trudged toward home, thinking wist- 
fully of the conversation of some of the 
other girls, whom she had overheard 
talking in low tones of their Easter night 
escapades. Never before had she felt 
rebellious toward the destiny that com- 
pelled her to renounce all hope in the 


[1021 


THE HAT 


direction of fashionable attire, trips to 
the park, sweethearts, and the like. 
She loved her mother. But to-night she 
felt unusually depressed. 

Well, she could at least look at the 
hat for a moment before going home. 
The little milliner’s shop was only a few 
steps ahead of her now; she could see 
that the curtains were raised. Vera liter- 
ally ran the final paces toward that 
window of enchantments. Then — the hat 
with the white tulle trimming and pinh, 
rose Was gone! In its place hung a fright- 
ful looking hat, no, a things with a long 
vulgar, imitation willow plume trailing 
from it. 

For a moment she stood amazed, petri- 
fied, her heart still, gazing into that 
window full of hats. Then, drooping a 
little, with two big irrepressible tears 


[ 103 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


quivering on her long lashes, she dragged 
herself away. The wide, child-like brown 
eyes, which had found so much real 
happiness in simple contemplation of the 
charm of that wonderful hat, were filled 
with an unutterable sadness; but in 
them there was neither anger nor rebel- 
lion now — only empty misery, the anguish 
of those who lose friends. 

At the street door she strove to com- 
pose her nerves. What a silly, foolish 
girl she was to worry and almost cry 
just because a hat she liked had been 
removed from a shop window! If the 
other girls knew, how they would laugh 
at her! And it would be cruel to permit 
her poor sick, patient mother to see her 
so agitated. 

But when she entered the dim little 
room, she could not help it; she col- 


[1041 


THE HAT 


lapsed on a little white chair near the 
window, holding a trembling arm before 
her face to hide the fugitive tears. 

Greatly alarmed, Mrs. Schultz propelled 
the creaking chair to her daughter’s 
side. 

“Vera, Vera — my child — what is the 
matter?’’ she pleaded, the words coming 
spasmodically as if she were short of 
breath. 

“It’s so fool — foolish of me. Mother,’’ 
the girl began in shaking accents, vainly 
trying to check the sobs that choked 
her, “but — but the hat, the hat I’ve told 
you so much about — it — it is gone. 
They’ve sold it.’’ 

Deeply moved, the old woman took 
the girl’s head between her thin arms 
as she managed to gasp: 

“But Vera — my little girl — little Mir- 


1105 ) 


FOREORDAINED 


iam helped me — I sold the chiffonier — 
twenty dollars. And I bought the hat 
for you. See! Here — ’tis on the bed, 
my child.’* 


1106 ] 


IN OCTOBER 


t 


■ /'iV' • 




\ 

t 


I 





IN OCTOBER 

W HEN the weather is kind, it 
is my custom to enjoy a soli- 
tary stroll through the open 
country every Sunday afternoon. Leav- 
ing the tumultary scenes of men and 
their desperate enterprises far behind, 
I seek a quiet, fragrant spot in some 
wood or meadow where Nature’s varnish 
of charm has not yet been scratched 
by the most inimical of her children — 
there to meditate, fashioning my dreams. 
Away from the seething city one’s imagin- 
ings soar to purer zones. And I retain 
tender memories of certain glades and 
dells wherein I have lived moments 
which cheated existence of some of its 
trivial monotony. Varying scenes and 


[1091 


FOREORDAINED 


changing seasons reveal sources for new 
rivulets of thought. There are rolling 
regions whose gently undulating slopes 
evoke shadowy imaginative vignettes of 
gracefully shapen feminine forms; se- 
cluded woody vales, luxuriantly scented, 
conducive to musing unutterably delicate; 
and stern, wild rocky areas which sug- 
gest the sweeping majesty of certain 
passages in the greatest symphony of 
Beethoven. In the unpolluted open it 
is not difficult to find appropriate settings 
for the most colourful of our reveries. 

On several occasions, during such walks, 
I have fallen in with congenial characters. 
And of the most interesting of these I 
will now tell you. 

4: * SK He if: 

One October day I paused beside a 
maple-sheltered stream that I chanced 


[1101 


IN OCTOBER 


upon about ten miles from the city, to 
admire the view. It was a warm, sun-lit 
afternoon, one of those days which some- 
times come in mid-autumn, when the 
withering grass perceptibly brightens and 
the dying foliage seems to assume less 
sombre hues, as if Summer were making 
a desperate effort to retain a few of 
Autumn’s hours. At this point the brook 
had widened into quite a pond; and 
through the clear surface, flecked with 
curling leaves, I could easily distinguish 
the flashing sides of diminutive fishes. 
In the pool’s clear mirror, white bits of 
cloud, reflected with their background of 
tenderest blue, floated below the inverted 
maples. From his perch on a stump, 
o’erhanging a foaming eddy below a tiny 
rapids some yards down-stream, a crane 
contemplated me curiously, though ap- 


[ 111 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


parently without fear. And beyond a 
loose-hanging wire fence at my right, 
reclining in a miry hollow, were four cows, 
one of which, with a board tied to her 
horns in such a manner as to prevent 
her seeing any direction but downward, 
was leisurely licking her flanks. 

The place captivated me. And I had 
just settled myself comfortably, with 
my copy of Dorian Gray propped on a 
fallen tree, when a stranger, appearing 
on the opposite bank, attracted my gaze. 
The man, who seemed to be slightly 
below the medium height, was garbed 
in a suit of some brownish material 
resembling the olive drab worn by sol- 
diers. In his hand he carried a stout 
staff with a curved handle. Perceiving 
me, the unknown stepped back into the 
wood. 


[ 112 ] 


IN OCTOBER 


I was again immersed in my book, 
when the sound of feet tramping through 
the leaves, nearby, gave me a slight 
start. Glancing up, my eyes met those 
of the man I had seen across the stream. 
We both smiled. Then, with a polite 
“Beg pardon,” he started to move away. 
Something in his demeanour attracted 
me. I longed to speak with him. 

“Pardon me, do you happen to have a 
time-piece?” 1 asked, uttering the first 
stupid commonplace that came into my 
head, in order to arrest his attention. 

Taking several steps in my direction, 
he replied: 

“No, not here; but I just left my home 
over there in the trees. It’s about half- 
past two.” 

In this conventional manner our talk 
began. At the sight of my book, the 


FOREORDAINED 


stranger’s eye lighted up, brightening 
with pleasure: 

“Ah, you read Wilde? His is good 
work.” 

As every devotee of letters knows, 
there is no touch which will sooner 
bring out spiritual kinship than a dis- 
cussion of that art. And within a half 
hour we were fast friends. At each dis- 
covery of coincident views we laughed 
aloud until echoes reverberated through 
the maple grove, and the crane flew away 
from his perch on the stump in terror. 

While we conversed, I had ample oppor- 
tunity of observing my companion at 
close range. He was apparently about 
thirty years my senior. His hair, showing 
in spots traces of its original brown, was 
almost entirely white, and, although not 
affectedly long, it fell about his wide 


[ 114 ] 


IN OCTOBER 


forehead like a silvery aureole. His 
eyes, deep black, were eloquent, express- 
ing even subtler shades of thought than 
the words he used. The nose was a trifle 
large, though well cut; and the mouth 
drooped slightly over a small chin. The 
general expression of his face was one of 
remote sadness; but when talking he 
frequently smiled, discussing his topic 
with vehement earnestness, and punctuat- 
ing the discourse with appropriate, though 
not exaggerated gestures. 

He had read much more widely than 
I, although along similar channels. And 
as we sat beside the pool, watching the 
alert minnows desporting themselves on 
its sun-burnished surface, we spun whole 
philosophical systems, taking our similes 
from material nearest at hand, each glad 
to have found so sympathetic a listener. 


[1151 


FOREORDAINED 


“Everywhere,” said my companion, 
“the distinguishing mind perceives illus- 
trations of human insignificance. Look 
at those cows, there! One of them had 
a greater thirst for knowledge than her 
sisters, and, evincing roving tendencies, 
did not hesitate to leap fences which 
right-minded cattle consider insuperable. 
So the cautious farmer puts a board over 
her eyes to prevent her seeing whether 
the next field is greener than this one. 
In the human herd it is otherwise. There, 
the ignorant, being in overwhelming 
ascendency for ages, have constructed 
tough boards of custom, deceit and cant, 
which are unquestioningly worn by al- 
most all: each century has added its 
contribution. And each century, too, a 
few creatures, braver and more intelli- 
gent than the rest, having shaken off 


[1161 


IN OCTOBER 


their own incumbrances to vision, or at 
least partially so, have endeavoured nobly 
to persuade their myriad fellows to follow 
their example: and such efforts have not 
been entirely useless. But, then, when 
the mask of falsity is cast aside, the man 
is still perplexed. True, he can see 
beyond the extremely narrow horizon of 
his companions; but just as one of those 
cows has no conception of any world 
beyond the fields in which she has grazed 
and the country visible from them, so 
the greatest of great men is forever 
limited to the confines of space percepti- 
ble to his own imperfect intellect. His 
sublime theories are at best based on 
conjecture. Were a man’s brain to be- 
come five times as large and sensitive 
as it is, who can say what startling illu- 
mination would be thrown upon problems 


[1171 


FOREORDAIN ED 


now beyond our scope? What accepted 
beliefs would be shattered? But where 
am I going? This is mere idle specu- 
lation/’ 

At this juncture, a red squirrel, scam- 
pering through the leaves in front of 
us, interrupted the discourse. Bolt up- 
right, his tail slowly waving, the little 
fellow looked at us for an instant through 
soft brown eyes, before rushing up a 
stately buttonwood, to disappear behind 
its ivy-draped trunk. These maneuvers 
greatly interested my companion. 

“Ah! how I like to watch them, the 
wild animals, I mean,” he said. “They 
are so charmingly naive, so utterly de- 
void of that vanity which is at once 
the curse and spur to sublime endeavour 
of human beings.” 

In this manner we talked on, gradually 


11181 


IN OCTOBER 


drifting to more personal topics. Point- 
ing to a verdant hill across the pond, my 
friend said: 

“I live over there — alone. I seldom 
hold converse with people; but I have 
found some simple-minded country folk 
hereabout, whose society I prefer to that 
of college presidents. Whatever wisdom 
these illiterates possess is their very own; 
they have not read themselves heavy 
with other peoples* false ideas.** 

“But why should you, a man of cul- 
ture, to use a bromidiom, hide your 
light under a bushel in this manner?** 
I asked, in amazement. “Why do you 
seek to avoid intercourse with the world?** 
Frowning slightly, he turned his head 
aside. Then, with a rapid glance which 
seemed to pierce my eyes, he replied: 
“You possess understanding: 1*11 tell 


[1191 


FOREORDAINED 


you why. It’s a long story; but I’ll 
abridge it considerably.” 

And after producing a blackened pipe 
for himself and offering me a cigarette, 
he leaned back on a moss-covered stump, 
half closing his eyes, and began: 

“Many years ago, I, too, was fired 
with that young enthusiasm with which 
you have so charmed me, just now. 
I would do great things in the world — 
Great Things. Yes, I felt so many 
thoughts kindling within me that they 
found adequate expression in nothing. 
A body pushed from all directions, you 
know, usuallly stands still. But, here 
I am drifting off my story. I will begin 
again: 

“Before I had reached an age of pro- 
test, my parents, who had six older 
children, agreed that I should follow in 


[ 120 ] 


IN OCTOBER 


my father’s footsteps, as a prosperous 
merchant in the country town in which 
we lived. Before I had passed my six- 
teenth birthday, however, I felt myself 
to be destined to a life of music. I would 
be a great composer, perhaps not unnoted 
as a piano-forte virtuoso. This ambition 
remained unchanged until I had been a 
year at the University. Then I chanced 
to see Edwin Booth in Hamlet Now, I 
saw my career assume new outline; it 
was plain that I must become a cele- 
brated actor. Later, I developed a taste 
for reading narrative literature of the 
better sort, that has never since deserted 
me, and which at the time equalled in 
depth the hearty antipathy I felt toward 
most of my formal studies. At eighteen, 
then, I had discovered that my mission 
was to be a novelist. At last the towering 


[1211 


FOREORDAINED 


American realist would appear! I steeped 
myself in Balzac, Stendhal, Flaubert, 
and what novels of that marvellous Rus- 
sian, Turgenev, could be had in trans- 
lation. At that time, the naturalists 
had not yet become prominent. Two 
years later, however, as I sat in cap and 
gown, waiting to receive my degree, all 
desire to write fiction forgotten, my 
ambition centered on philosophy — a whole 
metaphysical system teemed in my mind, 
only waiting to be written. 

“Such are the fond imaginings of intel- 
lectual youth! 

“But when I look back on those col- 
lege days I can point with solemn pride 
to one neglected opportunity of display- 
ing genius: although I had a passion for 
good poetry, I never attempted verse. 

“Despite my soaring ambitions, I never 


1122 ] 


IN OCTOBER 


felt much true confidence in my own 
powers. Noting the wide divergence 
between my opinions and desires and 
those commonly cherished by my pro- 
fessors and fellow students, I often 
doubted whether I was not after all the 
eccentric fool they supposed me to be. 
I constantly disagreed with the instruct- 
ors. It appeared that they were con- 
tinually throwing a drapery of pretence 
over Truth, instead of revealing it. I 
was very lonely. 

“Several months after graduation, I 
was informed one day by my father 
that ‘it was time for me to buckle down 
in the store.* And I quite dramatically 
told him that I preferred death to such 
another snail’s existence as his own had 
been. Thereupon, my father, who had 
a very bad temper, ordered me from his 


[1231 


FOREORDAINED 


house, accompanying this command with 
a brief but forceful commentary on my 
own utter worthlessness, concluding with 
a statement to the effect that he was 
frankly ashamed to admit bringing such 
a being into the world at all. 

“After that memorable day I did not 
see my father again until I attended his 
funeral. 

“In the city I struggled desperately 
for a bare existence. I thought of teach- 
ing, but could find no vacancies in that 
profession. My glaring poverty of prac- 
tical knowledge amazed me. I seemed 
to be bereft of some sense possessed by 
others, who, though woefully deficient in 
finer qualities, prospered materially while 
I hungered. I had resolved to become a 
journalist; but my timid manner and 
lack of experience combined sore against 


[ 124 ] 


IN OCTOBER 


me; and editors scarcely listened to my 
applications. 

“I wandered through the streets, feel- 
ing immeasurably distant from the throng- 
ing trampers of the pavement, toilers 
among whom I so humbly sought a place. 
Finally I obtained a position in a depart- 
ment store, where I sold shoes at six 
dollars per week. I had simply left my 
father’s shop to go into another. In 
the evenings, seated in a chilly room, 
I attempted to write fiction; but my 
thoughts still flew toward philosophy, 
and such manuscripts as I succeeded in 
finishing were invariably returned with 
coldly discouraging printed slips. 

“Then I determined to devote my 
entire scant leisure to one long-projected 
work — a philosophic system founded upon 
Schopenhauer, even as Schopenhauer is 


[ 125 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


based on Kant. Heaven knows whom 
I expected to publish it, but I laboured 
persistently until I had written perhaps 
seventy thousands words. The work 
fascinated me. 1 felt quite heroic, — 
a six-dollar a week salesman composing 
a system which would revolutionize the 
trend of modern thought! Well, I was 
spared the pain of ever becoming cogniz- 
ant of the inferiority of my performance. 
For while I was yet enthused, my land- 
lady, discovering the manuscript spread 
about on the bed one morning, inadver- 
tently cast it into the waste basket; 
and in the evening I returned to find my 
precious spiritual child in ashes. I did 
not quarrel with the poor woman — I 
owed her two weeks* rent; but when 
alone, I wept.’* 

Here, my companion paused in his 


11261 


IN OCTOBER 


narrative and rose, shaking the moss from 
his coat, his eyes turned toward the 
evening sun which was visible between 
two hills in the west. In the pool at 
our feet, imparting to its entire surface 
the appearance of newly burnished gold, 
the great red disc was reflected. Night 
was approaching. And a sharp autumnal 
tang was now quite appreciable in the 
atmosphere. 

“Come over to my house,” said my 
friend, “and I’ll finish the story while 
we have a bit of supper before the open 
fire.” 

I accepted this invitation willingly. 
The prospect of supper in the light of a 
cheerful blaze, while listening to so charm- 
ing a talker, appealed to me strongly. 
About one hundred yards further up- 
stream we made our way across a series 


1127 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


of rocks; and after a short walk arrived 
at my host’s cottage, standing amid a 
grove of oaks and maples at the top 
of a small hill, from which the pond, 
at this hour, resembled an enormous 
scintillant gem. Before entering, we 
stood on the porch for a few moments 
to admire the sunset — that marvelous 
close of day which is ever eloquent to 
those who are at all sensitive. A roseate 
flush o’erspread the rolling clouds gath- 
ered above the hills, disclosing varying 
hues of red and pink and orange; between 
the horizon and the lower ribbons of 
richly tinted vapour shone a section of 
the great lamp, now almost crimson; 
and a group of pine trees crowning the 
taller crest stood out resplendent in the 
gush of tenderly gorgeous light, grad- 
ually fading. Now only a slight, glowing 


1128 ] 


IN OCTOBER 


band of fire remained above the tree-tops. 
We watched it sink behind the hills. 

My companion, as if suddenly waking, 
turned from the spot where he had stood 
transfixed, his eyes sweeping the dim- 
ming west, and took my arm. 

“Let us go in,” he said. 

The house, although somewhat more 
commodious than that of the hermit of 
romance, or Thoreau’s cabin, was far 
from pretentious. On the ground floor 
there were two rooms — a comfortably 
furnished living-room, its oiled floor car- 
peted with rugs of rich brown, opened 
into a small kitchen in the rear. In the 
prevailing half-light, I could distinguish 
the outlines of a desk, a small grand 
piano, a table, couch, and several roomy 
chairs. 

After several moments’ searching for 


[1291 


FOREORDAINED 


a match, my host lighted a large shaded 
lamp on the reading table, and two tall 
candles on the mantel-shelf over the open 
fireplace, in which chips and small logs 
were piled ready to be ignited. From 
under the sofa a dog, a handsome collie, 
suddenly appeared, rubbing his nose 
against the old man’s legs. 

When my eyes had become accustomed 
to the artificial light I looked about me 
curiously. On a cabinet near the piano 
stood a clay statuette of Beethoven — a 
bust in which the features were unideal- 
ized. The walls were hung with por- 
traits — steel engravings most of them, of 
philosophers, literary men, and artists. 
I was especially attracted by a striking 
picture of Theophile Gautier, visible 
between the flickering candles. Around 
the room low book-cases extended. And 


[ 130 ] 


IN OCTOBER 


while my host set about preparing 
our refreshment, and the dog dozed 
before the fire which had been lighted, 
I browsed among the volumes, many 
of which were unfamiliar. One case 
was entirely taken up with works of 
formal philosophy — Kant, Spinoza, Scho- 
penhauer, Descartes, Hume, Spencer 
and others. Among these, incongru- 
ously enough, was a worn copy of WaU 
dm. Taking it down I found that 
the binding had become loose. I opened 
the book at random, my eye falling 
upon the following passage in penciled 
brackets: 

“Why should we be in such desperate 
haste to succeed, and in such desperate 
enterprises? If a man does not keep 
pace with his companions, perhaps it 
is because he hears a different drummer.” 


FOREORDAINED 


The quintessence of Thoreau in two 
sentences! 

The immortal masterpieces of French 
literature filled three shelves. Complete 
sets of Balzac and Flaubert, bound in 
full leather, showed much handling. 
Several works by Russian writers were 
there, but to my surprise they included 
not a single novel of Tolstoi. In the 
adjoining case, the British poets reigned 
supreme; but comparatively few works 
of English and American prose fiction 
were discoverable. 1 found a set of 
Stevenson, however, and some odd vol- 
umes of Fielding and Scott. Sir Edwin 
Arnold’s delightful rendering of the wis- 
dom of Sadi, Fitzgerald’s Omar, and 
another work from the Persian, The Lights 
of Canopus, shared a lower shelf with an 
enormous dictionary and other books 


1132 ] 


IN OCTOBER 


of reference. Shakespeare, complete in 
one massive volume, occupied a con- 
spicuous position on top of the same 
case, over a stack of cover less magazines. 
The Latin Classics (in the original) were 
flanked by a uniform edition of the 
Greek in translation. There were many 
other books, chaotically filling the re- 
maining space. Masterpieces of the 
literature of Italy hugged huge works 
on natural history; Hamlet and Lear, in 
a small volume, were sandwiched between 
A History of the Russian People and Bur- 
ton’s Anatomy of Melancholy; Wurtz’s 
Chemistry and Wilson’s Ornithology lay 
complaisantly under a heavy stock of 
The World's Greatest Artists, topped with 
a translation of Wilhelm Meister; and 
so on. 

I was just dipping into a little collec- 


[1331 


FOREORDAINED 


tion of tales by Pushkin when my host, 
touching my shoulder with a smile, an- 
nounced supper. On a low, circular 
table, beside the freshly made fire, he 
had prepared a tempting repast — a broiled 
chicken with fried potatoes; there was 
no bread, but we did not miss it. We 
both ate heartily, concluding our meal 
with some delicious grapes which I was 
informed had been grown on my host’s 
own farm, as indeed had everything else 
we had eaten. Clearing away the debris, 
the old man produced a pot of excellent 
coffee. And with our chairs drawn in 
before the glowing hearth, while the dog 
munched the remains of the chicken, we 
began to talk literature again. Then we 
drifted to music, of which this unique 
character was very fond. With modern 
tendencies in that most sublime of arts. 


[1341 


IN OCTOBER 


however, he felt no sympathy; sharing 
Rubinstein’s view of Wagner and his 
satellites, he admired Grieg. The clas- 
sicists, the pre-Beethoven composers! 
Ah! they were musicians. The Italians, 
Rossini, Donizetti and the rest, they 
wrote very fine tunes; but for the high- 
est forms of art one looked toward 
Germany. Beethoven! a hallowed name. 
The C minor symphony carried Music 
to a pinnacle whose only parallel in litera- 
ture would be Hamlet. 

From music we glided into a philo- 
sophical discussion and from that back 
to letters again. In the midst of a 
spirited arraignment of several ultra- 
modern French novelists, who had 
“dragged Art off her illuminated pedestal 
through the sewers of the sciolistic 
Philistines,” he paused, wiping his brow. 


1135 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


“Oh, I promised to conclude my story: 
to tell you why I learned to live like 
this. Let me see— Where did I stop?” 

The twisting flames, suddenly leaping 
up, threw a ruddy glow over his earnest 
countenance, softening the lines of his 
features. And I felt deeply moved by 
this picture — this gentle-faced, fine old 
man, with his sad eyes, sitting in the 
firelight. He resumed the narrative 
begun in the afternoon: 

“When I was twenty- two years old, 
I met and loved the sweetest of women, 
ril not trouble you with verbal gym- 
nastics; but when I say that that not 
infrequently misapplied adjective, beauti- 
ful, describes her, you will believe me. 
But wait, you can judge for yourself.” 

From his desk he produced a faded 
photograph which he handed me. And 


1136 ) 


IN OCTOBER 


truly, the girl’s face was beautiful. Hers 
was an intangible, ephemeral loveliness; 
a patient, subdued sorrowing seemed to 
lie behind her eyes, as if she, perhaps, 
cherished some profound yearning, never 
quenched. Though tender, the face re- 
vealed considerable passion, and the 
delicate curvature of the lips vouched 
a refinement in her emotions untinged 
by the sensuousness of the usual. 

My host gazed into the eyes of the 
portrait himself for a moment before 
carefully rewrapping it in tissue paper 
and depositing it in the desk drawer. 
He smiled; but I thought I detected a 
slight catch in his voice as he said: 

“Yes, beautiful. Beauty! that which 
affords a precious relief for the general 
sordidness of this human spectacle. 
Great art! all is but worship to Beauty. 


[ 137 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


She is the charmer wooed by all true 
artists, whether their pleadings take 
expression through subtle harmonies, 
voice, brush, or pen.” 

Then he continued: 

“When I became engaged to Lina I 
was earning twelve dollars a week, while 
she received even a smaller sum. We 
lived in the same boarding house. Urg- 
ing me to continue writing, she felt 
great confidence in my ability, and pre- 
dicted a blazoning career. At her re- 
quest I abandoned my ‘system’ to resume 
striving in the direction of acceptable 
fiction. And although my writings were 
promptly declined, each disappointment 
seemed only to add to the girl’s faith in 
me, instead of reducing it. I never 
could bring myself to share her enthu- 
siasm, I could construct nothing along 


( 138 ) 


IN OCTOBER 


the Stereotyped lines laid down by editors. 
The girl tried to encourage me by recalling 
the early struggles for recognition of 
men now revered the world over. 

“Later, I succeeded in getting on the 
local staff of a morning newspaper, where 
my duties kept me far into the night. 
Consequently, I seldom had an oppor- 
tunity of seeing Lina for more than a 
few moments each morning. Tuesday 
was my ‘day off’; and in the evening 
I would meet her at the library where 
she was employed, to go to dinner at a 
little restaurant where the bill came to 
one dollar. There we discussed our 
plans. Although my salary was not 
much larger than before, I found news- 
paper work more congenial than anything 
else I had attempted: 1 was writing for 
publication — at last. Lina read and 


[ 139 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


re-read everything I had printed, includ- 
ing the most commonplace accounts of 
dedicatory addresses, obscure suicides, 
and church fairs, to which young report- 
ers are invariably assigned. 

“During my brief leisure I began a 
novel, dealing, of course, with an ideal- 
ized Ego. Lina helped me. My attach- 
ment to that girl grew in strength as 
time passed. Of all mankind, she was 
the sole creature who had ever believed 
me ought but a mistaken weakling or 
worse; she encouraged my nobler endeav- 
ours; and with her I could converse, 
unmasked, without fear of being incom- 
prehensible, and considered eccentric. 

“One wet night in November, about 
a year after I became a reporter, Lina 
caught a cold which speedily developed 
into pneumonia. Three days later she 


[ 140 ] 


IN OCTOBER 


died. Less than a month afterward I 
was offered an editorial position with 
a substantial increase in salary. And 
within a year, my father also died, leav- 
ing me, to my genuine surprise, property 
valued at eight thousand dollars.” 

The old man told me the foregoing in 
an even voice, quite without bitterness. 
Indeed, he spoke as if telling of the 
experience of some other individual. For 
perhaps five minutes he sat looking into 
the fireplace; then he rose to stir the 
glowing coals and place another log on 
the fire. The dog, who had fallen asleep 
on the rug at my feet, now got up with 
a contented yawn, resting his head on 
his master’s lap. The man smiled. 

“1 have always loved animals better 
than men,” he said, stroking the crea- 
ture’s neck. “In fact, I could never 


FOREORDAINED 


rid myself of a sense of remoteness from 
my kind. Standing amid the hurrying 
throng on a city street, I wonder whither 
and why they are hurrying. Why this 
continual push and scramble? This 
vain effort to attain that which we have 
not! Men have inherited the earth; 
but they are not satisfied with it; they 
aspire to Heaven. So they erect ‘sky- 
scrapers,’ pour their energy into enter- 
prises at once futile and unnecessary, 
put the unworthy in authority over the 
virtuous, set rogues to judge thieves, 
and the like. They are progressing! 

“When contemplating the mortal 
scene, its ceaseless turmoil and continual 
pursuit of the rainbow, the inquiring 
mind is indeed at a loss what to think. 
But it is better, of course, not to per- 
mit our first condemning impulses to 


1142 ] 


IN OCTOBER 


play too harshly. The thing cannot be 
helped. The absurd, pompous preten- 
sions to dignity assumed by Man — this 
imperfect descendant of apes — are as- 
suredly more ludicrous than deliberately 
wicked. And truly, he presents a sad 
figure, struggling amid his innate con- 
flicting desires; destined to a predatory 
life, he mightily endeavours to be just; 
a born liar seeking Truth: surely more 
mistaken than evil, more to be pitied 
than despised. In passing upon him 
and his achievements we are prone to 
be governed by our own environing 
influences. And with reason. For cer- 
tainly the miserable, drug-chained habitue 
of reeking Chinese dives can advance some 
slight excuse for pessimism, and the 
healthy millionaire its opposite! 

“When Lina died, I realized that 


[ 143 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


everything tying me to fraternizing con- 
ventions was gone. But I worked on. 
My novel, refused by seventeen publish- 
ers, I finally destroyed — an act which 
I have since regretted. Plays, tales, 
essays — all were born to die, their beauties 
wasted. 

“I came to hate the city, its inhabitants, 
its crowds, its noises: the continual aim- 
less leaping about of the same fish in 
the same dirty aquarium. Every morn- 
ing I rose at the same hour, met the 
same girl, who smiled in the same weak 
manner at the same corner, on my way 
to the same restaurant — there to be con- 
fronted with the same menu of yester- 
day, the day before, the year before. 
I began to seek circuitous routes from 
the office to my room, from my room 
to the office, in order to avoid the repeti- 


[ 144 ] 


IN OCTOBER 


tious viewing of unwholesome sights. 
The drivelous chatter of stupid people 
annoyed me; I longed for freedom, 
solitude, a finer environment. I beheld 
men, and felt scant kinship with them. 

“Then I found this place — a tranquil 
haven in accessible seclusion, where I 
have time to polish my faculties, to 
improve my intellect. The farm earns 
me a living; I enjoy working in the 
pure, open air. And I have much to 
be thankful for; I am spared a toiler’s 
life in the clutches of an employer; if 
men refuse to have my works, I am 
permitted to hold aloof from them. 
The chasm separating a man possessed 
of the slightest superfluity of intellect 
from the generality of his species may 
not be a wide one, but it is exceeding 
difficult to bridge. Those who do not 


[1451 


FOREORDAINED 


pause to contemplate it pronounce the 
world a glorious place. I do not find it 
so. Before the stupendous problems 
before it, the reflective mind stands 
amazed; we endeavour to build up theo- 
ries when the very ground-work of all 
our reasonings remains a mystery; but 
the intellect persists in its groping for 
some explanation. In this brief existence 
of ours, I prefer to utilize my allotted 
time in meditating upon it. 

“What a host of perplexing contrasts 
humanity presents! There are times 
when I am wont to agree, unquestioningly, 
with the melancholy reflection of Ham- 
let: 

“ ‘0, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, 
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! 

Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d 

His canon ’gainst self -slaughter! OGod! God! 


[ 146 ] 


IN OCTOBER 


How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable 

Seem to me all the uses of this world! 

Fie on’t! ah fie! ’tis an unweeded garden. 

That grows to seed; things rank and gross in 
nature 

Possess it merely * 

“The human millions are indeed above 
the brutes whom they chastise shame- 
fully; but not so much so as some would 
have us believe; about the problems of 
the cosmos they are satisfied not to 
think. Our race has achieved its suprem- 
acy through the originality of a com- 
paratively small number of beings. The 
rest are unreasoning, stupid, blinded by 
custom. And yet, frequently we dis- 
cover the most sublime qualities asso- 
ciated with the vilest. My father, for 
instance, choked my ambitions, sent me 
from his house to hunger, though he must 


[ 147 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


have thought of me much. And I knew 

a woman once who But that is no 

matter. With the general, the simple 
incidents of appreciating fine art, of 
falling in love, are mere simulation of 
the doings of their superiors. The 
greatest work of art is only fully appre- 
ciable to artists; this Love, sung by 
poets, is unknown to almost all: so few 
really experience its transports; and 
even with these it seldom survives the 
commonplace of daily existence, at best 
degenerating into a tolerant compan- 
ionship. Lina, whom I loved, is 
dead — she is still young, a hallowed 
memory. If she had lived, we would 
have married. Perhaps she would 
have become the mother of chil- 
dren, and growing very stout. — No, 
no, it is better as it is. Our days of 


11481 


IN OCTOBER 


purest affection have never ended. It 
is better so. 

“Here in the woods I have many 
friends: squirrels, foxes, partridges, great 
trees, and awesome rocks. They never 
deceive. I never learn aught but good 
from them; every brook, every grassy 
glade is a source of pleasurable instruc- 
tion. 

“True, there are times when, bored 
with myself, I do go into the city; more 
often when there are any dramatic per- 
formances worth attending. Once, when 
1 had a few hundred dollars to spare, 
I even went to Europe for a month; 
but I was glad to get back to my home 
in the woods, very glad. 

“Although few admit it, even to them- 
selves, most men’s efforts are spurred on 
by desires entirely personal. Through 


[ 149 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


some weakness in their natures they 
imagine that contentment is only to be 
found on the opposite side of steep bar- 
riers. I have taken a shorter road. 
With me the inner life is the more im- 
portant; I have always believed that 
the possessor of a mind somewhat above 
the common run is more to be envied 
than the wealthiest monarch, even though 
he never be appreciated; and as the years 
multiply the truth of this view becomes 
only more apparent.” 

Looking down at me, he quoted: 

“Though from thy grasp all worldly things 
should flee. 

Grieve not for them, for they are nothing 
worth: 

And though a world in thy possession be, 

Joy not, for worthless are the things of earth. 

Since to that better world ’tis given to thee 
To pass, speed on, for this is nothing worth. ’’ 


[1501 


IN OCTOBER 


Here the good man paused and sat 
down, his face, which had become ani- 
mated, assuming its original calm poise. 

“Ah! you must pardon me. It is most 
inhospitable to inflict you in this manner 
— you have been wasting your time, 
listening to the misanthropy of an old 
man.” 

“Misanthropy!” I exclaimed. “But 
have you not written ?” 

“Oh, yes, I write,” he interposed, 
waving his arm. “I write; in fact, I am 
preparing a work that may prove of some 
importance; but it will not appear pre- 
vious to my death.” 

Then he added: “Some other time you 
can see it.” 

Suddenly I thought of the hour. 

“Great heavens, it must be almost 
midnight!” 


[ 151 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


“The trolley is only ten minutes walk 
from here,” he replied, glancing at the 
clock on the mantel-shelf; “a car is due 
within quarter of an hour.” 

Promising to call again on the follow- 
ing Sunday, I left him at the door. 

“I have enjoyed your society, truly,” 
he repeated, clasping my hand. “It is 
so good to meet one who speaks the 
same language.” 

The autumn moon was soaring high 
in the heavens, shedding o’er the world 
her softening glamour, a mystic trans- 
parency in which trees, shrubs, the entire 
scene, seemed to float. I paused to look 
back at the cottage, draped in its shadowy, 
silvery-silken sheen. In the pond below 
the hill a whole chorus of frogs, croaking 
in melancholy unison, blended their tones 


IN OCTOBER 


with the faintly audible plash of the tiny 
cascade plunging over the rocks. And 
somewhere an owl — or perhaps a raccoon 
— sent forth its laughing message across 
glimmering thickets. From within the 
house I heard another, a human voice, 
singing with subdued accompaniment. 
Listening attentively, I could distinguish 
the melody; it was Von Nessler’s great 
song from The Trumpeter of Sahkingen. 

Through the lighted window, I could 
see the old man, with bowed head, his 
fingers caressing the keys: 

“Behiit’ dich Gott! es war schon gewesen, 

Behiit’ dich Gott! es hat nicht sollen sein.” 

The screech of an approaching trolley 
wakened me rudely; I reached the track 
just in time to swing onto a rear seat, 
near the conductor, who stood gravely 


FOREORDAINED 


sorting a roll of exchange tickets. I was 
the sole passenger. And as the car shot 
through the serene, dreamy night toward 
the city, my thoughts still clung to 
woodland pathways, gradually becoming 
obliterated by a sensation of tender 
melancholy, a longing sadness, not un- 
pleasurable, which can be understood 
only by those who have themselves 
experienced it. 


RALSTON 









RALSTON 


A Story of Newspaper Life 

I T was a drizzling, chilly afternoon in 
late February, and Ralston could not 
repress a shiver as he stood on the 
pavement in front of White’s Hotel, 
dodging the raindrops that seemed to 
be making desperate efforts to get be- 
tween the back of his neck and his 
rather soiled collar. He did not possess 
the wherewithal to make his presence 
at the inviting bar, just inside the swing- 
ing doors, especially desirable; and he 
spat meditatively in the filthy gutter 
as he buttoned a thin, shiny blue serge 
coat across his chest. 

“Damn it. I’ve got to do something,’’ 


FOREORDAINED 


he thought, as the realization that he 
was hungry and did not have a single 
dime imbedded itself into his mind. 

Ralston was a newspaper man. After 
a somewhat stormy career at one of our 
better known universities, which had 
terminated with his abrupt suspension — 
because the faculty deemed him un- 
plastic material — he had drifted into the 
“game” as cub reporter on a metropolitan 
daily. But that had been fifteen years 
ago. During the intervening time he 
had done many things — and accomplished 
little enough. He had worked on so 
many publications that he had almost 
lost track of them all; he had married 
(in haste, as he did almost everything), 
and was the father of a sad-eyed little 
girl. Lastly, he had established a rather 
dubious reputation as a past master in 


[ 158 ] 


RALSTON 


the art of alcohol absorption. And this 
accomplishment had in a great measure 
been responsible for Ralston’s varied 
career as a journalist. 

Managing editors and city editors 
have a disheartening way of quietly get- 
ting rid of men who do not exert them- 
selves to control their lapses from re- 
spectability. Not that editors generally 
are white ribboners; far from it; but 
they do appreciate the value of copy 
readers and reporters who know when 
to drink and when not to drink. 

Ralston had worked on and been dis- 
charged from almost every paper in the 
city. During the past month he had 
been eking out a meagre living, the 
precariousness of which showed plainly 
in the pinched face of little Elizabeth 
and the worried, furtive look in her 


[ 159 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


mother’s eyes, by writing “little things” 
for the Planet, a moribund evening news- 
paper employing no regular staff, which 
just managed to keep its head above 
water through the generous gifts of 
municipal advertising that it received 
from the city administration — for cer- 
tain reasons. 

But the police court had been singularly 
unprolific of “human interest” stories, 
suitable for sale (at half space rates) 
to the Planet, and Ralston’s personal 
appearance had taken on a lamentable 
aspect of shabbiness. Also, his family 
was suffering; and he was finding it 
harder and harder to borrow a quarter 
from any of his friends. 

On this particular afternoon Ralston 
was beginning to lose hope. It was one 
of those terrible days when human hearts 


[1601 


RALSTON 


are seared and the spirits of the un- 
fortunate are at low ebb. The damp, 
chill touch of the pavement through the 
holes in the soles of his worn shoes 
seemed to permeate his very being; 
and he was cold. 

“I’ll make the rounds of the offices 
just one more time,” he thought. “And 
I’ll put it up to them strong.’’ But if 
his reputation still prevented his getting 
a position? Well — the river offered 
possibilities. 

Holmes, the managing editor of the 
Times, was not particularly cordial, when 
Ralston stepped into his office fifteen 
minutes later. 

“No, I’m about filled up on the copy 
desk now,’’ he replied, almost testily, 
to Ralston’s blunt, direct application 
for a position. “And I am sure that 


[ 161 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


Anderson does not need anybody on the 
local staff, either.” 

After this reception Ralston did not 
even trouble to call upon the city editor 
in quest of a place on the reportorial 
staff. He shambled out of the room 
with an apologetic air. He was used to 
such treatment, but always felt hurt by 
a rebuff. 

‘There’s another illustration of what 
booze will do,” remarked the managing 
editor to his stenographer, as they 
watched the retreating figure for an 
instant. ‘‘That human wreck was at 
one time among the best copy readers 
in town; but he’s almost down and out 
now.” 

Ralston next determined to apply at 
the Globe office. This place had always 
seemed a sort of home to him. It was 


[ 162 ] 


RALSTON 


there that he had learned the business, 
and had even advanced so far as the 
dignified position of night city editor, 
which post he had filled satisfactorily 
until one sad day when an unusually 
distended bank roll and an uncommonly 
nice crowd of “friends” had got him 
into such a state as to make work for 
the succeeding four evenings an impos- 
sibility. And then he had been dis- 
charged. 

As he walked the four squares separat- 
ing the Times building from that of the 
Globe, Ralston did some deep thinking. 
He wanted to get on as a copy reader. 
Now the duties of a copy reader, I might 
as well explain for the benefit of the 
uninitiated, consist of editing the work of 
reporters and correspondents, and writing 
headlines. On morning newspapers a 


FOREORDAINED 


copy reader’s hours approach regularity, 
while those of a reporter are liable to 
be of any length. Then, too, a copy 
reader does not have the continual temp- 
tation to drink that assails a reporter. 
For in the life of a good news gatherer 
there are many opportunities to obtain 
free drinks from those craving kind 
treatment in the newspapers. And Ral- 
ston had definitely made up his mind to 
stop drinking. 

The elevator man at the Globe build- 
ing looked askance when Ralston stepped 
into his car and quietly asked to be 
taken to the fifth floor. He was familiar 
with the figure in faded blue serge, and 
felt a patronizing contempt for it, as he 
did for all newspaper men out of a job. 

Six o’clock was just striking as Ral- 
ston entered the local room. At desks 


1164 ] 


RALSTON 


scattered about in haphazard fashion 
several young men were clicking away 
energetically at semi-obsolete typewrit- 
ers. The night and day city editors 
were bending over the latter’s desk with 
the assignment book before them, telling 
over the day’s business. At one end of 
the long room a group of men sat around 
a long table, with piles of typewritten 
copy before them. From time to time 
one of them would toss a few of the 
loose sheets into a little wire basket 
at his side, at the same time bawling 
out “Boy” in nerve-racking tones; 
whereupon an urchin would snatch up 
the bundle of paper and send it up the 
vacuum tube to the composing room. 

But Ralston noticed none of this. 
He hurried through the local room into 
the office of the managing editor, where 


[1651 


FOREORDAINED 


he found that worthy with his feet on 
a desk, busily engaged in enjoying a 
quiet smoke before six o’clock council. 

Although by no means effusive, Max- 
well Neil’s greeting was pleasant enough. 

“I hardly know what to say, Jim,” 
he began, when Ralston broached the 
subject of his call. “You know as well 
as I do that you are in bad with this 
sheet. However, you need a job, and I 
need a good man to read copy, and if 
you come around a couple of days from 
now I can probably do something for 
you.” 

From this Ralston felt sure that he 
had found a job. He knew that Neil 
would never have given him the faintest 
glimmering of hope if he had not meant 
to take him on. Before he had time to 
reply, however, Drake, the city editor. 


[ 166 ] 


RALSTON 


came in with a piece of copy in his hand 
which he handed to Neil with the 
question: 

“Think we had better use any of 
that?” 

“Cut it to four sticks with a 
five head,” replied the managing 
editor. “And be careful that you don’t 
let anything too raw get into the 
story.” 

Before leaving the office, Ralston made 
an appointment with Neil for an inter- 
view two days later. He was in a happy 
frame of mind, as he stepped into the 
street — even though he felt hungry. It 
was still raining a little, and the elec- 
tric lights shone into the mist through 
the stained glass windows of White’s. 
But Ralston noted with pleasure that 
he had no desire to enter. In fact, he 


FOREORDAINED 


smiled, a clean, healthy smile, as he 
thought: 

“IVe cut it — this time for good/' 

The next day he went down to the 
Central Police Court in the hope of 
picking up something that might prove 
marketable with the Planet. After pa- 
tiently listening through a number of 
featureless petty larceny and non-support 
cases, he was finally rewarded by a really 
good little story. A young woman had 
caused the arrest of her fiance, charging 
him with larceny, because he had taken 
back his ring after breaking their engage- 
ment. Despite the fact that neither of 
the principals in this gravely humourous 
affair spoke English, and the whole 
proceeding was carried on through the 
medium of “Zach” Einstein, a city de- 
tective, who also filled the post of inter- 


[1681 


RALSTON 


preter in the police court, Ralston 
wrote a very readable account of the 
hearing, full of “human interest” and 
clever dialogue. 

When he took this modest offering 
to the Planet office, he was pleased to 
find an order for ninety cents, for a former 
piece of work, awaiting him. This came 
rather unexpectedly; and Ralston hurried 
home. For his family had been hungry 
for several days, and ninety cents will 
buy a fairly substantial meal for three if 
quality is made subservient to quantity. 

And indeed it was quite a nice bit 
of supper that Ralston’s wife prepared; 
and, with the prospect of work ahead, 
he felt almost happy in the little, low- 
ceilinged fiat, with its dearth of furni- 
ture (much had been pawned to meet 
the needs of daily life) and absence of 


FOREORDAINED 


heat. After eating he waxed contem- 
plative. 

“They probably won’t pay me a great 
deal,’’ he told Elizabeth, “but I will at 
least be able to get some presentable 
clothing, and later we will move into 
better quarters and live like human 
beings.’’ 

“That is if you stop drinking,’’ his 
wife broke in with anything but a sym- 
pathetic tone. Ralston rose, took his 
hat quietly and walked out. He did 
not enjoy having his shortcomings paraded 
before him on all occasions, like dismal 
spectres. 

At the time appointed Ralston was in 
Neil’s office at the dole. Without a 
word of greeting, Neil plunged directly 
into the subject of employing him. 


[ 170 ] 


RALSTON 


“Of course in order to get a chance 
on the desk here, you must cut out the 
booze argument, Jim,” he began. “And 
if you do that Tm sure that the rest 
will be all right.” 

“IVe stopped imbibing once and for 
all, Mac,” was Ralston’s firm reply. 

“By Gosh, 1 believe you mean that,” 
ejaculated the managing editor warmly, 
extending his hand. “And you might 
as well begin work to-night if you can.” 

So Ralston once more became a copy 
reader. He was to be paid twenty 
dollars a week to start, with a promise 
of a five-dollar increase after two months 
of satisfactory work. That same night 
he borrowed ten dollars from the “Shy- 
lock,” as the office loan association was 
generally termed; and after a generous 


[ 171 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


meal, accompanied by no stimulants, he 
began work. 

He read local copy that night. Ah, 
what a pleasure it was to be handling 
the typewritten sheets, and writing heads 
again! How musical was the sound 
of the clicking typewriters, and whirring 
instruments in the adjacent telegraph 
room! Ralston became lost in sheer 
love of his work. And after “Good- 
night” was given at three o’clock next 
morning, when some of the others were 
adjourning to White’s bar for a night- 
cap, he felt no inclination to be of the 
party. And he walked home, happy in 
the realization of victory over himself. 

Weeks passed by. Marie and little 
Elizabeth began to be cheerful again, 
and Ralston himself regained an appear- 


[ 172 ] 


RALSTON 


ance of gentility that had been sadly 
lacking for several months. He had 
a new blue suit, and his linen was clean. 
His face became full, his eye steady, 
and his carriage more upright; in short, 
he began to look the man he really was. 
Cabmen once more solicited his patron- 
age; the elevator man spoke to him with 
marked respect. And best of all, his 
work was giving satisfaction. On one 
occasion he had occupied the night city 
desk, when the regular occupant of that 
throne had been ill for a few days. The 
promised raise materialized much sooner 
than he had expected. Things generally 
began to wear a rosy air. 

One night, when Ralston reported for 
duty shortly after six o’clock, he found 
a yellow office envelope in his letter box. 
This was nothing unusual and he leis- 


FOREORDAINED 


urely tore it open and started to read 
the contents. He paled; there was a 
sudden rush of pain in his head; and 
for a moment his surroundings lost all 
tangibility. Then, quickly recovering 
himself, he re-read the note which ran 
as follows: 

Dear Mr. Ralston: — 

I am very sorry to say that owing to a reor- 
ganization of the news desk we find that your 
services will not be required after Friday, 
April 8. 

Please see me to-night. 

Maxwell Neil, 

Managing Editor. 

With the slip of paper still in his cold 
hand, Ralston walked slowly over to 
his place at the copy desk and sank into 
a chair. His mind was overwhelmed 


[ 174 ] 


RALSTON 


with a vast question. Why? Why? 
Why? 

His work had been commended. What 
could he have done to merit this igno- 
minious treatment? What in the name 
of Heaven could have caused this thing, 
this little scrap of paper which so crushed 
his spirit? He could scarcely contain 
himself, as he waited for Neil to return 
from council. And as soon as the bulky 
figure of his superior appeared, he dashed 
into the office. Making little effort to 
conceal his violent agitation, he held the 
offending communication before Neil’s 
eyes, demanding: 

“What does this mean, Mac? I — I 
don’t quite understand just who — Per- 
haps ” 

During his career as a newspaper 
executive Maxwell Neil had discharged 


FOREORDAINED 


many men; but there was the suggestion 
of a tremour in his voice as he replied: 

“The thing is none of my doing, Jim. 
Read this.” 

At the same time he tossed another 
note on the table before him. It was 
from Horace Lawson, the proprietor of 
the Globe, a society man whose friends 
appealed to him whenever they wished 
to have some of their own inconsequent 
doings heralded in the public prints. 
“H. W. L. musts” had become a curse 
to the “make-up man.” Lawson was 
known to frequently refer to the Globe 
as “my newspaper.” And his freakish 
ideas regarding the printing of news 
had caused his publication on more than 
one occasion to be the laughing stock of 
newspaperdom. One of his particular 
boasts was of the social and academic 


[1761 


RALSTON 


status of the men employed in the 
editorial department of the Globe. He 
habitually interfered with the work of 
every department-head on the paper, 
as the note which Ralston now read 
indicated. It ran: 

Dear Mr. Neil: — 

I was unaware that you had taken on that 
Ralston fellow again. I believe that he has 
been discharged from this paper twice. I do 
not care to employ such men. 

Get rid of him at once. 

H. W. L. 

‘This thing ” Ralston began in a 

shaking voice. “Oh, damn him. It is 
not right that such a man should control 
the efforts of hundreds of others. Damn 
him, the narrow, stinking “ 

But after this first burst of profane 


[ 177 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


rage Ralston subsided. “It’s his shop, 
after all, Mac,” he observed resignedly, 
“and he certainly has a right to employ 
whom he pleases.” 

Neil was silent for a moment. Out- 
side, in the local room, there was a lull 
in the din of the typewriters. And for 
a few seconds Ralston heard the ticking 
of the clock on the wall. “Well, I guess 
I’ll go now, Mac,” he said slowly, extend- 
ing his hand toward the other. 

“But see here,” Neil insisted, “I’ll 
give you letters to every managing 
editor in New York, and you can go 
over there and get a job.” 

Ralston tried to listen to his friend’s 
offer, but he scarcely heard what the 
man was saying. He knew that it was 
springtime and that the New York 
papers would be laying off men, instead 


[ 178 ] 


RALSTON 


of taking on more. Too dazed to think 
with much continuity, he took up his 
hat and overcoat and stumbled out 
through the passage to the elevator shaft. 
The thing that he knew and seemed to 
have emblazoned on his mind in large 
type was: I HAVE LOST MY JOB. 

Neil watched the man, sadly, until he 
passed through the door into the cor- 
ridor. “Pretty tough, and he takes it 
hard, too,” he thought. Then he dis- 
missed the matter from his mind, and 
turned to the final edition of an evening 
paper. 

Old Elmer, the elevator man, looked 
Ralston over quizzically when the latter 
stepped into the car, and he neglected 
to utter his accustomed “Good evening, 
sir.” In the other’s dejected appearance 
he scented disaster; and the realization 


[1791 


FOREORDAINED 


seemed to give him a grim joy. For 
Elmer was a misanthrope of the worst 
dye, who took a keen delight in the 
misery of others. 

At the street door Ralston met Wilkes, 
the dramatic editor, for whom he had 
“covered” several plays during his brief 
stay on the Globe staff. 

“Anyone very dead, Jim?” his friend 
inquired, cheerfully. 

“No — that is, not yet,” Ralston re- 
plied almost nastily, and without waiting 
for more words he hurried out into the 
night. 

“Queer chap, but I like him,” mused 
Wilkes, chewing at the end of his cigar. 
“His main trouble is that he is too 
all-fired sensitive; and sensitive people 
have no business in a newspaper office, 
or in fact one might well believe that they 



RALSTON 


don’t fit anywhere in this infernally 
practical city world of ours.” 

The night was damp and misty. It 
was raining a little, and the pavement 
was wet. The moist air chilled Ralston, 
and he involuntarily pushed his overcoat 
collar up about his neck. As he strode 
along, still too dazed for synthetic thought, 
his lagging feet carried him toward an 
open square, a short distance from the 
office. Mechanically, he walked to a 
rain-soaked bench and sat down. The 
trees were dripping, and a tiny drop of 
water, slipping into the crevice between 
his collar and neck, gave him a nasty 
start. Then he began to think. 

“Marie will never believe me,” he told 
himself. “She will swear that I have 
been getting drunk and staying away 
from the office. But I didn’t and it 


[ 181 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


was that Lawson ass — damn him. But 
what difference does it all make? I’ll 
take some cyanide or something, and 
end the job, once and for all.” 

But as his brain raced on, as brains 
will when too tired for coherent reason- 
ing, he realized that he lacked the phys- 
ical courage to take his own life. And 
he feared Marie. What would he do? 
He was wanted by nobody and could 
not even die. This Fate pursued him 
with relentless irony. He was a miser- 
able failure. He felt that his destiny 
had not been fair; and yet, he despised 
nobody so much as himself. 

The water on the bench began to 
soak through his clothing; and the added 
physical discomfort, coupled with his 
terrible mental unrest, made his thoughts 
a sorry muddle. He felt a desire to 


RALSTON 


move, and pulling his weakened body 
together he staggered up, and along the 
dreary, asphalt walk. After walking a 
few yards he sat down on another bench, 
and again tried to reason with himself. 
But his brain seemed to be tying itself 
in knots. He groaned aloud. 

He sat like that for hours — in a state 
alternating between periods of wildest 
mental activity and a stupid comatose 
condition. All sorts of strange fancies 
came crowding into his overtaxed mind. 
For a moment he would see his home, 
where he had been a sad, dissatisfied 
boy. Then scenes in the various news- 
paper offices where he had laboured, and 
recollections of midnight revels with other 
journalists shot through his brain in 
kaleidoscopic sequence, mingling with 
love passages whispered to Marie, years 


FOREORDAINED 


before. But above his vague imaginings 
there was the pervading sense of the 
horrible injustice of it all. It seemed 
as though he had been foreordained to 
misfortune. 

Finally he was aroused from the stupor 
into which he was rapidly sinking by 
the striking of a clock in a nearby tower. 
Three o’clock! It had started to rain 
again — a dreary, tantalizing, meagre driz- 
zle. He arose once more and began to 
walk — he knew not where. 

On and on he stumbled. He passed 
the Globe office without once looking up, 
and turned the corner of Chestnut Street 
without stopping. A friendly policeman 
bade him “Good morning’’; but he heard 
not. Then his eyes were dazzled by a 
gush of yellow light, penetrating the 
gloom from a window on the opposite 


RALSTON 


side of the street. Involuntarily he 
looked up, to see the electric light from 
White’s bar twinkling through the stained 
glass windows, adding a touch of warmth 
to the chilling atmosphere. 

He paused on the pavement, just 
where he had stood on that day, less 
than two months before, when he had 
been penniless and hungry. Instinc- 
tively, he reached down into his trousers 
pocket and drew forth several coins. 
A ghastly smile overspread his features 
as he began to formulate the thought: 

“No, I’m on the wagon now — I.” But 
he paused before completing the sentence. 

Then, casting a last wild, furtive glance 
over his shoulder, he took several eager 
steps toward the cheering light, and 
burst through the swinging doors. 


\ 


STALLED OX 




STALLED OX 


<4l\ /|Y life,” said the musician, 
I \/ I “has not been an altogether 
happy one. When my father 
lived 1 cherished an ambition toward 
becoming a great violinist some day; 
but he died before I was fourteen, and 
I then abandoned all hope for a brilliant 
future, to take a position in this cafe 
orchestra, that I might help support my 
mother and sister. 

“As you now see, I am still lead- 
ing the little band. I have played 
in this dining-room more than twenty 
years. But my career has not been 
without some brightness; for I am 
not boasting when I say that many 
persons of culture often dine here by 


[ 189 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


preference, because of the superior music 
we offer. 

“Like all musicians, I am never hap- 
pier than when playing for a sympathetic 
audience and never more miserable than 
when my art is wasted upon ears that 
do not listen. And, as it is almost im- 
possible to ever get the rapt attention of 
many people at the same time in a large 
cafe, I early fell into the habit of search- 
ing through the throng of diners, each 
evening, for a pair of sympathetic eyes, 
and then playing for the soul behind 
them. I have a good violin, about the 
only thing of value my poor father had 
to leave me; and there are times, 1 believe, 
when I make an impression upon some 
sensitive nature with my little solos. 

“One night will always stand out 
among the others I have spent here, as 


[ 190 ] 


STALLED OX 


a diamond amid bits of glass. On that 
particular evening we were dashing 
through some excerpts from Stradella, 
when I saw, over there under the 
palm trees, a pair of eyes that made 
me forget all others — and at the 
same time experience a feverish desire 
to play for them and their possessor 
alone. She was a beautiful woman. 
Not an over-dressed creature with 
glittering jewelry and an artificial 
complexion. Indeed, this girl would 
scarcely have attracted the ordinary 
man’s attention among a number of other 
women. For hers was that quiet, pro- 
found beauty which is only understood 
by the true artist. We musicians, you 
know, have a discernment in the ques- 
tion of feminine loveliness, just as 
we have tastes in everything else. 


[1911 


FOREORDAINED 


entirely incommensurate with our sta- 
tion in life. 

“These eyes were deep blue, of a shade 
I have never seen since; and somehow 
I immediately felt in sympathy with 
them. I raised my instrument, gave my 
directions to the other members of our 
little orchestra, and began to play Raff’s 
Cavatina in D major. It is a wonderful 
composition, with such an expressive, 
plaintive theme that I have always 
believed that Raff must have experienced 
some bitter disappointment which crushed 
his tender spirit, before composing it. 

“My violin is particularly responsive 
in the lower register, on the G string, 
you know, and that night I could fed 
it singing for me. As I played, I became 
conscious of those dark blue eyes look- 
ing into mine, and I knew that their 


[ 192 ] 


STALLED OX 


gentle owner heard every note of the 
piece, heard the music as only musicians 
can hear. For as you have often said, 
there are appreciative artists who do 
not create. And I felt sure that she was 
one of these. 

“As I executed the passage where 
the melodic theme is repeated in chords, 
I could see nothing but a confused blur 
of lights with a pair of wondrous blue 
eyes in their midst. My fingers trembled 
on the strings in a penetrating vibrato, 
and I could scarcely hear the clarionet 
player’s tones blending with those from 
my own instrument. 

“Oh, I played that night! Played 
well. For I had found something which 
made me a great artist despite my 
limited musical education — that much 
sought, unpurchasable something which 


11931 


FOREORDAINED 


you critics call inspiration. And I found 
it in a pair of blue eyes. 

“When I came to the closing measures 
of the Cavatina, in which the motif is 
re-introduced in the minor key, giving 
an effect like the lament of a weeping 
heart, with that final long-drawn tone 
which means so much in the proper 
rendition of music of this character, I 
could feel the bow shaking in my nervous 
hand. And when I took the violin from 
my chin, my friend, they applauded. 
That dining-room full of chattering hu- 
manity had been silenced by the most 
sublime of arts and now greeted me 
with appreciative bursts of enthusiasm — 
a thing which rarely occurs in such a 
cafe as this. But I had no attention for 
their clamouring; I saw a pair of eyes, 
her blue eyes, and nothing else. 


[ 194 ] 


STALLED OX 


“The woman looked up at me frankly, 
making no effort to conceal the effect 
the music had had upon her. Then she 
spoke in an undertone to her companion, 
a tailorish young man with enormous 
hands. Their table was not far from 
our side, but he made no effort to lower 
his voice as he replied: 

“ ‘You mean that crazy-looking Rus- 
sian violin fellow? Well, Tm afraid 
I don’t know much about such things, 
for I’m darned if I can see anything 
particularly refined or noble about his 
phiz.’ 

“It is not very pleasant to have one’s 
personal appearance spoken of slight- 
ingly, nor is it especially gratifying to be 
alluded to as a Russian when you happen 
to be a Bohemian; but I was comforted 
by the sharp angry glance that the lady 


[ 195 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


shot at her companion, and her gentle 
smile in my direction as they passed by, 

“I was rather inattentive to my work 
during the rest of that evening, I am 
afraid, as the other first violinist had to 
touch my arm twice to keep me from 
running away with the tempo, 

“The following night my lady of the 
blue eyes came to dinner again, and with 
the same escort. I watched their table 
— covertly, of course; for although I 
crave sympathy I am no flirt, and I did 
not care to have this gentle woman think 
me one. 

“I did little playing, simply beating 
time with my bow, until the waiter was 
serving dessert. Then I stopped the 
other musicians in the midst of a popular 
medley, telling them to turn to Raff’s 
Cavatina. And while I played it, as on 


STALLED OX 


the previous evening I could feel those 
deep blue eyes seeking my own through 
every bar of the music; and I knew she 
felt its beauty as much as I. That is 
what you call profound artistic apprecia- 
tion. 

“It is no unusual occurrence for a 
waiter to bring me, from time to time, 
a message from some fair diner or other 
requesting the orchestra to render a 
certain composition; but this girl walked 
over, impulsively, herself and asked if 
we would play Elgar’s Salut d' Amour. 
She was very fascinating, and her voice 
fulfilled the promise of her eyes. Never 
will I forget my sensations upon first 
hearing those rich warm tones. 

“I saw her frequently after that: 
sometimes she came for dinner, some- 
times for lunch; but the same young 


1197 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


man was not with her again. One 
afternoon, when we had just finished our 
program for the lunch hour, she came 
in with an older woman. The room 
was almost empty, the other musicians 
had gone; but I sat with my violin on 
my knees, setting the sound-post which 
had become loose during the dry summer 
weather. So engrossed was I in my 
work that I was unconscious of her 
nearness until I heard a voice at my 
shoulder saying: 

“ ‘You seem to love your violin, you 
handle it so tenderly.’ 

“ ‘It is a sweetheart who never proves 
untrue,’ I replied, looking up. 

The girl asked if she were detaining 
me, with an odd smile, and added that 
she and her aunt had just dropped in 
to ask a little favour. She then explained 


[1981 


STALLED OX 


that they were going to give a musical 
at their home on the following Thursday 
afternoon, and would like to have me 
play. She felt sure, she said, that if I 
had an opportunity I would soon ac- 
complish great things and leave restaurant 
playing for ever. 

“Of course I knew better; but you 
cannot explain such things to women — 
they become too enthusiastic. But al- 
though I could see from the older woman’s 
frigid attitude that only sheer obstinacy 
had secured the young lady permission 
to pay me this unconventional visit, 
I agreed to play for them, provided that 
I might bring my own accompanist. 

“I did not see either of the ladies 
again until the afternoon when my 
pianist, Zarinski, and I presented ourselves 
at their home. The concert was an 


[ 199 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


amateur affair; and of course our play- 
ing was well enough received, coming 
as it did after several rather pathetic 
vocal attempts. 

“I will never forget my indignation 
when, at the conclusion of the program, 
the girl’s mother, an old lady with pierc- 
ing eyes and a dry face, offered me 
money for our music. I knew that she 
feared I would consider myself her guest; 
but the daughter came to my rescue, 
telling her mother prettily that I had 
been asked to play, not hired, and that 
I was too much of an artist to accept 
money from them. You can well imagine 
my embarrassment during the enactment 
of that little scene. 

“I played several times for those 
society people. Of course, I was intro- 
duced as an anomaly, or at least accepted 


[ 200 ] 


STALLED OX 


as such; and the men merely tolerated 
me. The women, however, seemed fond 
enough of me, and I was truly in demand 
at their more or less informal musicals 
and teas. A few of these ladies, I found, 
possessed some real knowledge of music 
and the other arts; but the vast majority 
of them were hopeless. I remember one 
occasion when a demure girl asked: 

“ ‘Do you play the D’Annunzio 
Humor esl^e?* 

“I gathered that she wanted to hear 
Dvorak’s Humoresk^ in D flat, since it 
was quite popular at that time; and 
I told her mildly that the Italian she 
mentioned was a dramatist, not a 
musician. 

“ ‘Oh, dear, dear, that’s so; how 
thoughtless of me,’ was her listless reply. 

“That sort of thing did not appeal 


[201] 


FOREORDAINED 


to me, — to play the part of a performing 
animal for an ignorant mob, and I did 
not hesitate to tell my blue-eyed inspira- 
tion as much. 

“One evening, perhaps two months 
after our first meeting, she slipped a 
card into my hand, as she passed me in 
walking out of the dining-room, on which 
she had scrawled a little note (I still 
have it) asking me to call at her home 
the next afternoon. 

“She received me in her own drawing- 
room and insisted that I should sit on 
the big divan beside her. I was entirely 
too nice a boy, she told me, to vegetate 
in a cafe orchestra; and she proposed 
that I should permit her father to help 
me financially, while I studied the violin 
under the great teacher in Leipsic, of 
whom she had heard me speak. I tried 


[ 202 ] 


STALLED OX 


to make it clear to her that I was too 
old to ever accomplish anything as a 
virtuoso, and that all the soul in the 
world will not make a man a great 
violinist, if he has been deprived of 
proper training during his early years. 

“ ‘Well,’ she said, stamping her daintily 
shod foot on the soft rug, ‘if you go on 
playing where you are people will see 
you there, and will not want to ask you 
to their homes, — while I will be called 
a capricious little fool instead of the 
discoverer of a great genius.’ 

“1 was very uncomfortable during 
that visit, I assure you; but although 
her presence was intoxicating, I did not 
yield. For, shortly before the white 
plague carried him off, my father had 
once gravely called me to his side, to 
tell me that if I would give him my 


[ 203 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


solemn promise never to do anything 
which I felt in my heart he would dis- 
approve of, he could die content. And 
I well knew that my dear father would 
never have agreed to my obtaining an 
education through money not my own. 

“ ‘You’re a funny boy,* she said, as 
I was leaving the room, ‘but I like you 

so much. Will you meet me at L ’s 

for lunch at half past two, to-morrow?* 

“Perhaps I did wrong, my friend, but 
I consented. Surely, I thought, there 
could be nothing wrong in my seeing 
her — she who was so sympathetic and 
kind. And from that day we were 
often together — always meeting in some 
secluded cafe, however, where one was 
not apt to run across people of fashion. 
But I was not invited to her home again, 
nor did I ever play for her friends. 


1204 ] 


STALLED OX 


“Ah! those delicious little meetings! 
those walks and talks, together — ^my 
memory rekindles the fires of poetic 
youth at the thought! 

“Yes, I was happy for a time; for 
although I did not possess this jewel 
of womanhood, I had at least the supreme 
delight of gazing upon her often. And 
I loved this girl with the beauteous blue 
eyes, loved her from the depths of my 
tremulous soul — but 1 did not fully com- 
prehend this until long afterward. For 
time is as a glass which clarifies the 
impression made by objects in the dis- 
tance, and one never thoroughly under- 
stands the events of a period in his life 
and their significance until he looks 
back through the vista of years; then, 
when it is too late, the whole thing seems 
quite clear. 


1205 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


“But to return to my narrative: As 
time passed our meetings gradually be- 
came less frequent; and sometimes I 
thrilled with pain to see a worried, far- 
away expression in my loved one’s eyes. 
She swore by all the eternal verities that 
she loved me better than everything, 
that life away from me was an unmiti- 
gated bore, and would then lay my 
anxious, intangible fears with a flood of 
those tender appellations of endearment 
which tranquilize a troubled heart. But 
she never spoke of our marrying. In- 
deed, neither of us gave much serious 
consideration to the future. We were 
young, and so happy in each other’s 
company that we rarely entertained a 
thought of to-morrow. 

“There came an evening when I was 
engaged to play with an orchestra that 


[ 206 ] 


STALLED OX 


then furnished music for almost every 
important event on the year’s social 
calendar. I found a substitute to take 
my place here, that I might play at the 
hop. It had been nearly three weeks 
since I had seen those precious blue 
eyes, and my darling’s silence worried 
me. So I went to the dance, hoping 
that I might have the pleasure of look- 
ing upon her there. 

“In the ball-room, we musicians were 
hidden behind a clump of evergreens 
with coloured lights in them which com- 
pletely encircled the little gallery. But 
we could peer down through the branches 
at the dancers. I was sitting at the first 
stand with a young violinist whom I 
had never seen before. 

“While we were playing the intro- 
ductory waltz, a few couples ventured 


[ 207 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


forth, and I almost immediately saw her 
among them, gracefully swinging around 
the polished floor. She was strikingly 
beautiful in her clinging white dress 
with a small bouquet of blossoms, deli- 
cately pink, in the corsage. 

“During the evening, the young man 
at my side noticed how my eyes had 
a tendency to wander from the music 
before us to the lady in white; so he 
touched my arm, saying; 

“ ‘She is a beauty, isn’t she? No 
wonder her fiance is so jealous. I read 
in the Observer yesterday that he is so 
sore about her running around with an- 
other chap, whom nobody knows much 
about, that he threatens to break the 
engagement, and that the old man had 
decided to take her to Europe this 
month, so’s to get her away from the 


1208 ] 


STALLED OX 


youngster. But then the Observer has 
been publishing a lot of that stuff, vague 
hints and the like. Of course it is a nasty 
sheet and always has had it in for the 
old man, but there must be some founda- 
tion for all that talk. I tell you these 
swells are a crooked bunch, all right.’ 

“He was going on in this fashion when 
I interrupted, excitedly: ‘But do you 
know who that young lady is? It’s Miss 
Hartwell. Aren’t you mistaken?’ 

“My evident agitation startled him. 

“ ‘Why, fellow, don’t you ever read the 
papers?’ he asked. 

“But at this juncture the director 
tapped on his stand for us to begin the 
next number, and at its conclusion I 
did not push the conversation with my 
neighbour farther. 

“1 played through that dance like an 


[2091 


FOREORDAINED 


automaton. So she was having trouble 
— and because of me! A fiance! Ah, 
it is only those who have experienced 
those moments of terrible anguish which 
shake the spirit when a sweetheart proves 
inconstant who can appreciate the state 
of my emotions that night. Several 
times during the evening I saw her 
dancing or promenading with the uncouth 
blockhead who had called me a Russian; 
and the strained, hunted look in those 
enchanting eyes and his damned air of 
proprietorship made the hot blood plunge 
in my veins. And I felt like throwing 
my violin away, to rush down and twist 
his thick, red neck then and there. They 
left the room early, leaving me to visions 
of them eating a bit of supper, some- 
where, together. 

“There was no sleep for me that 


1210 ] 


STALLED OX 


night; and early next morning I bought 
a copy of every newspaper in the city, 
with several back issues of the Observer. 
Prior to that day I seldom glanced at 
a newspaper, and never at the society 
column. Since then I have read, 
hungrily, of the doings of the fashion- 
able world, every morning. 

“With the exception of the Observer, 
the papers scarcely touched upon the 
trouble in the Hartwell family, dismissing 
it with a few flippant, but veiled para- 
graphs in the Sunday society letters. 
Subsequently, I learned that the society 
editor of the Observer had obtained so 
many particulars about my personal 
appearance and my meetings with the 
popular Miss Hartwell from a hair- 
dresser, employed by the family, who 
had seen us together several times, and 


[ 211 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


that the proprietor of the paper was 
desirous of printing the stuff because old 
Hartwell had a shady business past 
which could not bear an airing in the 
public prints. 

“Several days after the ball I found 
a note in the mail asking me to meet 
my lady at a little road house in a quiet 
suburban town. We had dinner together. 
She told me that her father insisted 
upon taking her away to Europe, but 
that she would return within a month 
or two and marry me. It was wiser to 
humour the old man a little, she said, 
because he had been very angry at 
her for breaking her engagement and 
threatened disinheritance if she again 
disobeyed him by marrying an obscure 
musician. 

“ ‘Perhaps he never will consent,’ 


[2121 


STALLED OX 


she went on, ‘but he is my father, and 
I just cannot bear to give him two 
such blows in rapid succession. When 
I come back the first storm will have 
blown over, and maybe he’ll be easier 
to manage.’ 

“I have always maintained that if 
two persons love each other enough, 
they should marry, regardless of differ- 
ences in age, rank, or religion. But I 
did not want her to act rashly. So 
I argued that we would have nothing 
to live on but my slender earnings 
as a violinist, and that I had an old 
mother to support. I told her that 
she was accustomed to every luxury, 
while I was used to frugal living; but 
she quoted the old proverb about the 
dinner of herbs, while weeping on my 
shoulder. We were very, very sad that 


[ 213 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


day, and scarcely tasted the food before 
us. 

“She persisted that she would marry 
me in spite of all the protesting relatives 
and hardships in the world; but I noticed 
that she paled and almost shuddered when 
I described the little apartment in which 
I lived and told of a few of the privations 
I had often borne and which we would 
have to endure together. 

“ ‘It will hurt to give up my social 
position, my father’s money, and all 
that,’ she said, almost wildly, ‘but I 
want to be yours; and when I come 
back next month. I’ll expect you to 
have a ring for me.’ 

“No one else was in the little dining- 
room then, and I kissed her tenderly, on 
the forehead and afterward on the lips; 
and she smiled up at me bravely. I 


[2141 


STALLED OX 


could not talk much after that. My 
thoughts were in too great a tumult for 
expression, and the words died in my 
throat. As we were parting, she took 
from her handbag a little portrait, saying 
as she did so: 

“ Take this and wear it next your 
heart until you see me again.’ 

“She kissed me, and hurried to the 
motor car that was waiting outside, 
without once looking back. And I stood 
alone on the little hotel porch, my gaze 
riveted to the automobile, bearing her 
so rapidly away from me, until it was 
lost in a great cloud of dust. Then 
my eyes sought those of the picture in 
my hand, and several fugitive tears fell 
on it, as I noticed that she had posed in 
the gown I liked best and in which I had 
first seen her. 


1215 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


“It is an almost perfect likeness of 
my inspiration, the little picture she 
told me to wear near my heart. But 
many summers have come and gone 
since then. And I am wearing it yet.” 


1216 ] 


A SUMMER REVERIE 











A SUMMER REVERIE 


1 HAD come home for a few days, and 
my friend, the old coloured man, was 
strolling about the estate with me. 
Several years had passed since my last 
visit to my now aged parents. Indeed, 
I had seldom seen them or the scenes of 
my boyhood since the day when I left 
the farm to go to college. And now 
the chains of the city in which I had 
become a moiler in the gold mill had 
bound me, and I found scant time for 
visiting — even my birthplace. 

We were walking across a field, now 
green with waving, half-grown corn, 
which I had many a time plowed, culti- 
vated and harrowed as a boy. The 
July sunshine was oppressively hot, and 


[ 219 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


we walked perforce in the shade of a 
few swamp willows which grew on the 
bank of a great ravine that traversed 
the field, marring its value as a tillable 
plot, but adding a rather picturesque 
touch to the otherwise unchanging level. 
1 had always liked this ravine. There 
were great rocks in the middle; and a 
luxuriant growth of soft grass and small 
trees made it an inviting retreat when 
cultivating corn on a summer afternoon. 
Across the road was my father’s wood, 
where I had formerly hunted for rabbit 
and quail. In the other days I had 
loved to lie in the grass at the end of 
the ravine nearest the wood, and gaze 
up into the towering oaks, whilst I pon- 
dered over such momentous questions as 
whether or not the future held a brilliant 
career for me, or else gloated over the 


[2201 


A SUMMER REVERIE 


beauties of a French novel, surreptitiously 
slipped from my father’s book-case. 

As we sauntered along, sweltering in 
the day’s warmth, while William re- 
counted to me some oft-repeated tale 
of an adventure with a balky colt which 
had occurred in the days, long before I 
was born, when he worked for an apotheo- 
sized Mr. Janvier, I fell to musing. 
What memories these familiar fields and 
meadows awakened! During the years 
that had elapsed since my leaving home 
I had changed greatly. The high-ten- 
sioned existence of the metropolitan 
world is not conducive to retrospective 
thought; and the old life had passed 
back into some recondite corner of my 
brain, like a dream almost forgotten. 
Suddenly my meditation was interrupted 
by a sign from William. 


1221 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


“Dar’s old Ab’s skeleton,” he said 
quietly. “He died last winter.” 

While speaking he pointed to a dis- 
ordered heap of bones lying in the ravine. 

I looked, and there on the ground near 
a grim rock, saw the remains of what 
had once been a fine horse. Dirty, 
dusty, dry bones — prosaic enough. But 
how much the mention of the dead 
animal’s name recalled to me! Like a 
flash the windy spring day when my 
father had returned from the stable and 
announced that “Mabel had a new colt,” 
came into my mind. How anxious, I, 
then a boy of fourteen, had been to see 
the new arrival. Yes, he had been a 
handsome colt. And now I contemplated 
his bones. Williams sat down beside 
me, and as the day was a very hot one, 
and he was far from young, he soon 


[ 222 ] 


A SUMMER REVERIE 


fell asleep in the shade of a little pin 
oak. 

I gazed at the skeleton, fascinated. 
Again I saw myself riding Abdallah, 
when a frisky two-year old; and then 
I remembered how he had run away and 
destroyed a little road cart upon the 
occasion of his first introduction to har- 
ness. Slowly it dawned upon me that 
this animal had been very closely affiliated 
with my life during those boyhood days. 
My thoughts turned to the little red 
brick church, nestling in the valley, with 
a general store and blacksmith shop on 
either side of it. What moments of 
exquisite torture I had suffered, while 
driving thither on bright Sunday morn- 
ings, wondering whether some little fair 
maid or other would attend the services, 
and whether she would deign to talk 


[ 223 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


with me for a few moments before going 
home. 

Yes, it was there that I had met my 
first love — Rosalie. I first saw her at 
a church fair — one of those interminable 
affairs where country bumpkins stand 
about the door, exchanging horse talk 
and commenting on the season’s wheat 
crop, while trying to screw up courage 
enough to go among the girls, who are 
inside serving supper to their elders, or 
presiding behind booths at which various 
worthless knicknacks are displayed for sale. 
Someone, I have forgotten whom, asked 
me if I knew Rosalie F., and after mum- 
bling an introduction had hastened away. 
We looked into each other’s eyes for a 
moment; and then I had bashfully 
enough asked her whether she “cared 
for some ice cream or something.’’ She 


[ 224 ] 


A SUMMER REVERIE 


had accepted my invitation, and I had 
been scarcely able to eat for looking at 
her. Ah, but she was truly very beauti- 
ful. Hers was that full, rich and com- 
plete beauty which blooms only in the 
open. Sweet, innocent, kind Rosalie! 
What a rare, dear girl she was. Then, 
after many delicious little meetings at 
the church door on Sunday mornings, 
I had actually called on her. Abdallah 
took me to see her. How could I have 
forgotten that first enchanting evening? 
How my heart was all aflutter at the 
thought, as I drove slowly toward her 
home. For I was calling on a girl. 
What would I say if her terrible father 
should come to the door in answer to 
my ring? But he did not, and Rosalie 
herself, all clad in clinging white, had 
greeted me. Oh, how sweet she looked 


[ 225 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


that first evening and on many subse- 
quent evenings! Again my nostrils en- 
joyed the balmy fragrance of the pine 
trees in front of her home, and once 
more I thought of the sweet nothings 
and mendacious promises, whispered 
under the mystic canopy of stars, on lan- 
guorous summer nights, together. Then 
had come the inevitable parting. Of 
course we quarreled, and of course my 
passion cooled with surprising rapidity, 
as those first youthful passions have a 
way of doing. 

Afterward came Carrie; pretty viva- 
cious, naughty Carrie. I was older when 
I met her, and in my own eyes quite 
a man of the world. Vividly enough I 
recalled those drives through the moonlit 
woods together; smothered sighs, refrains 
of sentimental songs, hummed under 


1226 ] 


A SUMMER REVERIE 


one’s breath; afternoons spent in canoe- 
ing on the bay; and finally that gradual 
drifting apart which always comes in 
such affairs, unless the girl be exception- 
ally clever, or the man unusually dull. 
And then I remembered having seen 
Carrie again, years after, and having 
wondered how I could have ever cared 
for such an empty-headed chit of a young 
woman as she appeared to be, to my 
more mature mind. 

One night when at a dance with Carrie 
I met my next fate — Clara. And, while 
the others danced, she and I had stolen 
out for a quiet drive through the sum- 
mer night with Abdallah. The following 
evening I had called at her home, and 
within a few short days she had more 
than taken the place in my affections 
that the vivacious Carrie had occupied. 


[ 227 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


Voluptuous, passionate, worldly Clara! 
My inexperienced and youthful outlook 
on things made me an easy victim to 
her charms. 

Then came my first cruel jolt in the 
world, in the shape of a rival in love — 
a man possessing money, broad shoulders 
and a narrow mind. But that is the 
sort of thing that takes our Claras the 
world over — wealth coupled with the 
serene assurance of self-satisfied ignor- 
ance. So, just when I had declared to 
myself that life without Clara would be 
a void sojourn, she was snatched forever 
from my grasp. Ah! those hours of 
anguish! But I was young, and within 
a week after the catastrophe had fully 
regained my perennial interest in the 
opposite sex. 

After my experience with Clara, 1 


[ 228 ] 


A SUMMER REVERIE 


resolved never to love seriously again; 
I would curb my emotions, quenching 
passions while yet incipient; women 
would be my playthings. I was then 
nineteen years old, and in the autumn 
would leave the farm, with its odious 
round of tasks, to attend the University 
from which my father had determined 
I should obtain my degree. During that 
last summer at home I met many girls, 
and even became engaged in a half- 
hearted way to one of them. But after 
a few months of the novel atmosphere of 
college life in a distant city my early 
loves and doings were soon enough for- 
gotten. 

Other girls came into my life, but 
somehow they seemed to leave little 
impression upon my memory. 1 became 
interested in graver things. Incidentally, 


[ 229 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


I developed a feeling of antipathy which 
amounted almost to repulsion toward my 
early life and environment. During the 
long vacations I travelled, visited, and 
even worked; in fact, did almost anything 
to keep from spending much time at 
home, among my former associates. I 
read, and even began to think. 

And so, after four years of study, I 
entered a career of furious toiling for 
success in the crowded ranks of city 
workers. Friends, relatives, and all 
receded from my recollection, and in 
the busy whirl of daily life and new pur- 
suits I became a lamentably self-centered 
individual. 

And now, at forty, I had done- 
nothing. My candle was burned *out. 
My brief existence was already shaping 
toward its close. 


[ 230 ] 


A SUMMER REVERIE 


As I sat there in the late afternoon 
sunlight, looking up at the gently waving 
pines and pin oaks, my whole inconse- 
quent life seemed to be passing in tableau 
form before me. Gradually my thoughts 
blurred into a confused vision of forgotten 
faces, and in front of it all there came 
a handsome bay horse, with flying mane 
and gentle eyes, rubbing his nose familiarly 
against my palm; images of all my 
former loves, mingled with scenes in 
that early life, floated before me. Slowly 
these vague outlines took definite shape, 
and Rosalie’s face looked down, wearing 
her patient, sweet smile of infinite tender- 
ness, which I had loved, so long ago. 
Then Carrie’s intruding visage cruelly 
pushed the other away, and gazed at 
me accusingly; she even assumed bodily 
proportions, shaking a wreath of orange 


FOREORDAINED 


blossoms tauntingly before my eyes. 
Next, Clara’s face appeared, with that 
smirking smile I had once called beauti- 
ful. Then these phantom faces merged 
into nothingness, and I saw myself seated 
at a desk — working, working, working. 

Finally all sank back into oblivion; 
and I awoke. 

The sun, resembling a huge red coal, 
now shone through the trees, sending 
weird, trembling shadows down across the 
field. Passing my hand over my face, 
I found that I was crying there in the 
quiet of the evening, crying like an 
emotional woman at a good play. I 
was overcome with a realization of the 
smallness of Things. Again 1 looked 
down at the bones. 

Alas! I thought, only too soon I will 


[ 232 ] 


A SUMMER REVERIE 


also be a skeleton! although in all prob- 
ability there will be a bit more pomp 
connected with the transition, and a few 
unnecessary trappings around my residue. 

A feeling of loneliness, indescribable in 
its intensity, came over . me with the 
grim realization of how absolutely alone 
each of us stands in our inconsiderable 
world. Within, the real Me is ever 
imprisoned, ever aloof from any outward 
influence which might cross our life. 
There are secrets all our own that we 
carry with us to the grave. 

All of these things and many more 
were crowding into my mind while I 
sat there watching the sinking sun. But 
over and above my wild fancies came 
the deep, pervading message of the 
skeleton, which lay on the ground, telling 


[ 233 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


in mute eloquence of the terrible inconse- 
quence of everything. 

The glowing orb disappeared behind 
the wood; and, while I still sat by the 
ravine, a few of Night’s candles appeared 
in the eastern sky, blending with the 
last glimmer of twilight. I turned to 
William, who still slept under the little 
oak tree, contemplating his grey, and 
not unvenerable countenance, with its 
touching appearance of mild decay. And 
I felt in deep sympathy with him. We 
had both passed the time when men 
begin to look backward instead of for- 
ward, and when the life that once appeared 
as a well-rounded, powerful drama, seems 
but an incomplete farce. Softly, almost 
caressingly, I touched his arm as I said: 

“Come, old man. It must be time for 
supper.” 


[ 234 ] 


A SUMMER REVERIE 


He arose, rubbing his knees. And 
slowly we wended our way homeward, 
leaving Abdallah, and the ravine with 
its rough-hewn rocks and sheltering trees, 
in the beautiful silence of the starry 
summer night. 



'1 

A 




1 


1 



A WHITE FLOWER 


A WHITE FLOWER 


O N a soundless, grey afternoon in 
late autumn, one of those inex- 
pressibly sad afternoons when the 
sombrous voice of the year’s last hours 
echoes through the hearts of the sensi- 
tive, Eugene Forrester sat at his desk, 
clearing away accumulated papers no 
longer valued. The wire basket at his 
side was filling rapidly. And he had 
just finished destroying a dusty bundle 
of letters, ripping them with almost 
feverish energy, when he paused before 
a mauve envelope bearing his name, his 
Christian name only, written in a delicate 
feminine hand. The writing was greatly 
faded, the ink, once a deep purple, being 
now faintly perceptible. Nervously open- 


[ 239 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


ing the envelope, he drew forth a thin 
ghost of a flower, — a little white flower 
with a long pale green stem, so thin as to 
approach transparency. 

As Eugene contemplated this relic, a 
childish wail, followed by a resounding 
slap, was heard from an adjoining room. 
Little Elaine, poor little Elaine, was 
crying again and had been punished. 
The man rose, hastily closing the door; 
then he resumed his chair near the win- 
dow, gazing abstractedly at the dry blos- 
som in his damp palm. For perhaps half 
an hour he sat like that — ^motionless, his 
memory abnormally active, the spirit of 
the season mirrored upon his counte- 
nance, while two warm tears quivered 
beneath his lashes. A sigh escaped him. 

What emotion, what recollection of 
bygone tenderness, what forgotten scenes 


[ 240 ] 


A WHITE FLOWER 


played upon his spirit? Why did he 
sigh? 

This is why he sighed. I will tell you. 
I 

In the spring of 1890, Eugene For- 
rester, a young man of twenty, freshly 
graduated from college, good-looking, 
with “every prospect for success,” met 
and admired Adrienne Vernon, a widow, 
eleven years his senior. She was charm- 
ing. And in her companionship Eugene 
found gratifying relief after tedious hours 
spent in the enforced society of a desira- 
ble maiden, with a full purse and empty 
head, whom his mother considered “just 
the sort of girl a man might fall in love 
with.” 

A shy reticent boy, maturing early, 
Eugene failed to evince the customary 


FOREORDAINED 


tastes and enter into the usual pursuits 
of his season of life. His mother said 
he read too much. He liked Adrienne 
at first because she was companionable, 
preferred literature to tennis, and never 
giggled. Later, with increasing interest, 
he began to look upon her as one kindred 
spirit in a world of arrant changelings. 
He sought her opinions, made her heart 
the repository of his confidences, while 
the woman looked upon him with 
steadily growing fondness. And within 
a short month they were hopelessly 
enamoured — he with the impetuous love 
of pure youth, that real first love, 
which a man generally finds to be his 
last; she with the characteristic vehe- 
mency of a woman, disillusioned by 
early sentimental experiences, who later 
in life realizes that a man resembling 


[ 242 ] 


A WHITE FLOWER 


such as inhabited her young dreams 
really exists. 

For both it was a joyous awakening. 

One night, late in May, sitting on the 
porch of Adrienne’s home, Eugene, un- 
able to repress his consuming emotion 
longer, declared his feelings with all the 
voluble fervour of which he suddenly 
found himself capable. Greatly agitated, 
Adrienne spoke in tremulous accents: 

“I — I think you had better go — now, 
Eugene.” 

“No! not until you tell me — tell 
me ” 

Pressing his arm tightly, she inter- 
rupted: 

“Wait five years, Eugene, five years. 
If you want me then, why I’ll marry 
you.” 


FOREORDAINED 


Before he could reply she glided into 
the house. 

Two weeks later they became secretly 
engaged. 

When the elder Forresters observed 
the trend matters were taking, however, 
Eugene found his sentimental inclinations 
rudely blocked. At the instigation of 
his mother, his father, who seldom inter- 
fered with the son’s doings, said: 

“If you marry that woman, you’ll not 
get a cent from me, either now or when 
I’m dead; that’s final.” 

What suffering! 

That season Mama Forrester proposed 
leaving the city a bit earlier than usual. 
She feared that her impulsive son, reach- 
ing his majority within a few weeks, 
would marry Adrienne, inheritance or 


[ 244 ] 


A WHITE FLOWER 


no inheritance, feared that her Eugene 
would contract an alliance with this 
woman who supported herself — a person 
who worked! In the ethics of the climb- 
ing ilk of which Mrs. Forrester was a 
member, as everyone knows, to earn 
one’s living is to acknowledge kinship 
with the vulgar. And to permit the 
child of Marion Forrester, me Reid, to 
marry such a “creature!” Impossible! 

Upset, angry, cursing the narrowness 
of his parents and their failure to appre- 
ciate, with youthful energy, concocting 
and rejecting the wildest schemes, Eugene 
set out to call on Adrienne. On the 
morrow he must accompany his parents 
when they went West, not to return for 
at least four months. What would 
Adrienne say? 

It was Sunday afternoon, a warm. 


[ 245 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


almost cloudless day in early June; and 
as the young man walked through a 
green square full of vivifying air, scented 
with blossoming trees and shrubs, he 
felt his ill humour evapourating like a 
morning mist; he found it difficult to 
believe things capable of going radically 
awry in a world so resplendent. He 
tried to picture what sort of life he could 
lead without Adrienne’s refining influence, 
without the woman who respected his 
opinions, who was kind to his dreams. 
Did he not love her too sincerely, too 
profoundly, to consider giving her up? 

Near a fountain in the centre of the 
square, where several ragged children 
were poking sticks at the gold fishes, he 
paused, tapping his cane against the 
stone wall. Adrienne loved him. Then 
let his parents do what they might, he 


1246 ] 


A WHITE FLOWER 


would never relinquish that trusting affec- 
tion. That was settled. So why worry? 
Within less than a month he would be 
his own man. 

He found her awaiting him, attired 
in a cool-looking blue linen suit which 
displayed the exquisite contours of her 
admittedly mature figure to seducing 
advantage. As he kissed her, they clung 
together for several moments, neither 
speaking. 

Eugene hesitated before telling of his 
intended departure next day, prefacing 
this painful news with warm embraces 
and avowals of eternal constancy that 
flamed his own conviction. But Adrienne 
smiled bravely when she heard that they 
must separate for a short time. 

“You will go with them, of course,” 
she said. “I will miss you. But let’s 


[ 247 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


not spoil the day. It’s so pretty; I 
would like to go out in the country 
somewhere. Couldn’t we find some place 
where we have never been before?” 

Accordingly they set out, arriving, 
after a twenty minutes ride in a stuffy 
train, at a little station surrounded by 
a group of neat frame houses with vine- 
clad porches. They strolled along a 
shaded country road in the direction of 
a wooded hill, seen from the car window. 
In the distance, the verdant slope, with 
its fresh wrap of varying green dotted 
with white farmhouses, would have made 
a landscape painter glad. 

They walked along, hand in hand, like 
two children. 

Less than half a mile from the station, 
they came to a small house almost hid- 
den in its clump of environing lindens. 


[ 248 ] 


A WHITE FLOWER 


A charming little house, Adrienne thought. 
It was unoccupied. And tacked to one 
of the trees was a board, bearing in 
misshapen red characters the legend: 
This house and eight acres for sale or 
rent. 

Adrienne, her cheeks aglow, evinced a 
huge interest in the place. 

“Isn’t it just too sweet?’’ she asked, 
leaning on Eugene’s arm. 

“Yes, darling.’’ 

“Let’s look around and make believe 
we’re going to live here always.’’ 

Together they explored the back yard, 
where a rich profusion of crimson ramblers 
drooped over a decayed trellis, moulding 
in picturesque neglect; climbed up on 
the front porch, fragrant with honey- 
suckles, to peer into the vacant interior; 
and tasted the cherries on a dwarf tree 


[ 249 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


beside the pump, which was slowly rot- 
ting away. 

Adrienne was completely captivated. 

“I could make that front room so cosy 
and nice. Who could want a better 
home than this? It says, ‘and eight 
acres.’ I have money enough myself 
to furnish it just right; we could live 
simply, and ” 

She was enraptured with her dream. 
Her thoughts infected Eugene. He, too, 
had visions of a tranquil, serene existence 
in this perfumed haven — far from the 
scenes of mortal toil, with books, music, 
love. A home among roses with this 
supernal being! Could contentment be 
more complete? Together they would 
watch the spring come; on the warmest 
afternoon of summer they would listen 
to old Pan trolling on his pipes in dim 


[ 250 ] 


A WHITE FLOWER 


vales and sequestered meadows; they 
would live in the season of autumnal 
tints to observe Nature-painted pictures 
in all their various beauty; and when 
the cutting winds of winter flew over 
the fields, glistening white, how pleasant 
it would be beside the fire in their warm 
sitting-room! They would live as God 
planned his creatures to live, the pure, 
natural life of the open. 

Adrienne’s dewy glance rested upon 
Eugene with caressing languor. In each 
other’s shining eyes they read their 
dreams. Her bosom heaving, she threw 
both arms about his neck, pillowing her 
head on his shoulder, while he pressed 
his lips against hers in a long kiss. But 
in that kiss there was neither passion nor 
unappeased desire; during this interval 
their desires, their hopes, their finest 


FOREORDAINED 


gradations of thought, merged; and they 
felt as close as two mortals ever can. 
It was one of those rare moments which 
come perhaps thrice, if so often, in a 
lifetime. They were happy. 

A middle-aged country woman, a tall, 
angular woman with neither bust nor 
hips, suddenly appeared in the roadway 
before these lovers, who hastily drew 
apart. The intruder stepped forward. 

“Thinkin* of rentin’ the place?” she 
inquired, with a nervous, mirthless 
cackle. 

“How much is it?” asked Adrienne, 
smiling. 

It was only twenty-five dollars a 
month, farm included, this little Eden. 
Adrienne gravely told the owner that 
they would call if desirous of renting it. 
Eying the strangers suspiciously with an 


1252 ] 


A WHITE FLOWER 


occasional backward glance, the woman 
ambled toward her own dwelling, a white- 
washed farmhouse several hundred yards 
away. 

“Poor soul! life does not contain much 
for her,” said Adrienne. 

They strolled on, along avenues of 
stately maples through whose branches 
the sunshine filtered, across picturesque 
rustic bridges spanning rapid streams. 

From time to time they kissed each 
other. 

In a secluded dell, at the foot of the 
hill, they sat down on a flat rock beside 
a stony brook. And while listening to 
the restful purling of the stream, they 
talked of the future. 

“My father,” said Eugene, “has more 
than two hundred thousand dollars. 
We’ll let him keep it. I have some- 


[ 253 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


thing, infinitely precious, which no gold 
can buy.’’ 

The woman breathed against his cheek. 

With Adrienne nestling in his arms, he 
felt equal to any conceivable contingency 
— to noble acts, to brilliant achievement, 
to great sacrifice. He would prove to 
her, this dearest of women, that their 
love was not the insipid affection of con- 
ventional romance, but a profound and 
constant attachment, a blending of souls 
overcoming the sense of loneliness usually 
felt by sentient beings, a union founded 
on sentiments purely spiritual. He would 
accompany his parents; but within a 
month he could return and marry 
Adrienne. What matter the world, his 
inheritance, the opinions of ignoble 
natures? They loved! 

His assurances of sempiternal devotion 


[ 254 ] 


A WHITE FLOWER 


carried with them the firmness of convic- 
tion. Adrienne drew his head gently 
into her lap, kissing his cheek; her lips 
smiled. 

Two wrens fluttered into an alder 
bush overhanging the stream, where they 
had built their nest. And a red fox, 
scampering along a path through the 
underbrush, frightened at the unexpected 
sight of these human intruders in the 
wild silences, gave them a start. Through 
the disparted branches of a giant oak 
above their heads they saw, circling 
between them and the little tent of sap- 
phire sky the opening made visible, a 
winnowing hawk. 

For a long time neither spoke. 

“I like this spot, so much,” Adrienne 
finally observed, as she reclined in the 
soft grass, leaning upon Eugene’s breast. 


1255 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


The young man did not reply. He 
trembled, experiencing the birth of a new 
sensation, a thrill at once pleasurable 
and strange, a half-formed desire. And 
when her moist lips again sought his, 
they remained together. He could feel 
the warmth of her body. Adrienne 
closed her eyes. . . . 

In a wheat field, nearby, a partridge 
was calling her mate. 

The afternoon sunshine had long since 
given way to shadowy twilight before 
they thought of returning. An oriole, 
perched in a willow tree further down- 
stream, had finished his evening song. 
Darkness was settling down upon the 
world. The idea of departing engen- 
dered in Eugene a sinking at the heart, 
a weakness of spirit. He wished to stay. 


[ 256 ] 


A WHITE FLOWER 


to cling as long as possible to this en- 
chanted meadow, to prolong their hap- 
piness. 

“How can I leave you now?** he asked, 
throwing his arms about Adrienne’s neck. 
“I cannot, I cannot be away from you; 
I will not, not for a single day.’’ 

She stroked his hair. 

But at last they rose, and stood with 
clasped hands, gazing into the stream. 
Near the brookside, drooping over the 
water, grew a clump of delicate white 
flowers with long slender stems, con- 
trasting pleasantly with the otherwise 
unchanging green sward of the bank. 
Adrienne, her woman’s heart yearning 
for some memento, plucked two of the 
blossoms and kissed them, exclaiming as 
she did so: 

“I’ll take these sweet little things 


[2571 


FOREORDAINED 


home and press them. See! one for 
each of us. And to-morrow you will 
have yours before you go.” 

II 

It all came back to Eugene with sur- 
prising clarity, as he sat looking at the 
white flower — the fragrance of the 
meadow, the scented breeze, the voice 
of the gurgling brook, the woman’s 
warm caresses. His mind tingled with 
a whole ^ train of memories, long sup- 
pressed. 

Happiness 1 had he ever known it 
since that day? Was it not, after all, 
an insane delusion, pursued foolishly; a 
vanishing will-o’-the-wisp, never grasped? 
And what of the woman, the gentle, 
sympathetic woman, whom he had prom- 
ised to love always? Certainly he had 


[ 258 ] 


A WHITE FLOWER 


been sincere. And yet he had been 
led away from her so easily, it was sur- 
prisingly simple. Within a short month 
her face had faded from his sentimental 
imaginings, giving place to that of Mar- 
guerite — Marguerite, his wife, with whom 
he felt nothing in common, a being from 
some coarser sphere. And his vaunting 
ambitions, his rosy expectations, his con- 
fidence of unique achievement, visions 
which Adrienne had cherished! What of 
them? Blighted at incipience by an 
inharmonious life, like the little white 
flower they had faded away. 

Before an interrogating inner eye, the 
incidents of his commonplace existence 
seemed to be passing in review. What 
a dull monochrome it all was! He had 
not even accomplished material success. 
The fortune, for which contentment was 


[ 259 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


a sacrifice, had dwindled; indeed, he was, 
sadly enough, a comparatively poor man. 
And what held the future? A continua- 
tion of the same round of tiring trivialities? 
Very probably. 

The thought of his early romance 
appealed to him in its sadness; he clung 
to that rekindled memory, as the one 
chapter apart from the rest. She! for 
a touch of her fingers what would he not 
do? But where? He was weak, power- 
less, chained, painfully analyzing his 
emotions. As he fx)ndered, a longing to 
revisit the little vale by the brookside, 
a desire to live over those moments of 
vanished tenderness, to sit again on the 
grey rock under the oak, stole over him. 

An hour later, a middle-aged man, with 
stooped shoulders, stood on the platform 


[ 260 ] 


A WHITE FLOWER 


of the same station where an erect, 
flushed youth, accompanied by a radiant 
woman, had alighted on a bright day in 
June, long ago. 

Eugene looked about him. The place 
appeared more dilapidated, more wretched, 
sordid, forlorn. In the grey distance, 
the hill, now sombre black, still reared 
its head among the fields. Yes, he had 
not been mistaken. It was the same 
place. 

Glancing apprehensively at the over- 
cast sky when a single raindrop touched 
his face, he set out. 

The walk seemed much longer to-day. 
Had he realized how far it was and the 
possibility of a shower, he would not 
have come. Still, now that he had 
started, he might as well continue. Sev- 
eral times he stopped for breath, wiping 


[ 261 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


his forehead with his handkerchief. How 
desolate the country seemed! 

Ambling along, between rows of stripped 
maples, immediately recognized, he delved 
within his heart for appropriate emotions. 

It suddenly occurred to him that he 
was making himself ridiculous. Cer- 
tainly people would laugh if they knew, 
knew that he, a man of his age, was 
making such a pilgrimage. And in 
search of what sentiment? Involuntarily, 
he glanced over his shoulder, as if ex- 
pectant of seeing faces crooked with 
smiles. Why did people always jeer at 
our few subtler susceptibilities, which 
alone relieve existence of its inflexible, 
encrusting routine? Why, for instance, 
were a bundle of love letters, no matter 
how genuinely impassioned, always pro- 
vocative of mirth to a third party? 


[ 262 ] 


A WHITE FLOWER 


At a bend in the road he paused 
again; but this time not from fatigue. 
Around that turn, they, he and Adri- 
enne, had stopped at the little vine- 
clad cottage. Trembling strangely, he 
stumbled on. 

But the house among the lindens was 
gone. The trees had been cut down. 
And for a long time Eugene stood still, 
staring blankly at the blackened stumps. 

With lowered head, he walked rapidly 
away, without once looking back. 

At last he neared the meadow. 
Through the young oak trees and bushes 
of sumac, now bare and gaunt, the 
brook was suddenly visible, its surface 
in places almost entirely covered with 
an umber blanket of leaves. The gigantic 
tree still stood among its thicket of chil- 
dren, the light shining freely through its 


[ 263 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


branches; and the flat rock still had a 
little hollow in it, where some rain- 
water had settled; but it was all chill, 
depressing, desolate. A withering touch 
seemed to have wreaked havoc in the 
little valley, once so green. Everything 
reminded him unpleasantly of death: 
the broken stalks of the reeds beside the 
water, the curling, pale brown oak leaves, 
and the tree itself with its fantastic 
resemblance to a huge skeleton. 

Death! Why did things die? Why 
did Nature clothe her world in beauty 
at springtime only to strip it again in 
autumn? Why did the bright hope of 
youth’s season give place to the melan- 
choly disenchantment of middle life? 
Why did mortals make such irrevocable 
mistakes? What was the divine plan? 
Was God possessed of a grim sense of 


[264 


A WHITE FLOWER 


humour, only satisfied by constant view- 
ing of useless, disappointing turmoil on 
earth? Did each spark of golden fire 
adorning His infinite firmament signify 
just such another cauldron of fatuity and 
sorrow? 

He sat down under the tree to think. 
Never before had he realized the under- 
lying vanity of human effort so sharply. 
The conventions and rulings of mankind! 
What purpose did they serve, beyond 
continually hindering seekers of content- 
ment? A man must follow those before 
him, wearing their hopes, aspiring to 
similar ends, or else be reviled. To 
assert individuality! The race was in- 
cessantly busy suppressing such ten- 
dencies. 

He blamed his parents for his own 
failure to grasp the sweet, simple happi- 


[ 265 ! 


FOREORDAINED 


ness of pure love. Suppose he had mar- 
ried Adrienne? 

Taking the white flower from his pocket, 
he fell to musing of “what might have 
been.” He remembered how she had 
kissed the blossom after picking it. 
And the other! What repository had it 
found? Or, perhaps — and somehow the 
thought choked him — perhaps it no longer 
existed. 

Suppose he had married Adrienne! 
The idea pleased him. In imagination 
he traced their life, this ideal life which 
had not been lived, through every detail. 
He fancied a cottage, with crimson 
ramblers, amid honeysuckles, festooning 
the porch, a garden tastefully arranged, 
a loved form bending over a dahlia bed, 
trowel in hand. Seated at his desk in 
the library, he looks out upon this scene. 


[ 266 ] 


A WHITE FLOWER 


— Adrienne, his wife, smiling among the 
flowers they both love, her cheeks vying 
with the rose-pink geranium. It is a 
lovely morning in June. How pretty 
the garden, glistening in dew! Adrienne 
is battling with a refractory mass of 
baked soil around the dahlia roots. He 
will walk toward her and kiss her un- 
awares, and then help pulverize the 
earth. Perhaps the flowers need more 
loam. To-day he will get some. He is 
on the porch, when from the rear of the 
house rushes a dog, a terrier, frisking 
against his master’s legs, and revealing 
his presence by short little barks of 
delight. 

Adrienne looks up: dropping the 
trowel, she approaches with parted lips, 
and inviting arms. He embraces her 
tenderly. They have been married for 


12671 


FOREORDAINED 


years, but her gentle breathing against 
his shoulder still thrills deliciously. 

“Three kisses, and then my boy must 
get back to his work. This afternoon 
we’ll take a walk.” 

The rich tones, cadenced with affec- 
tion, fall from her lips like restful music. 

They are not rich; but they desire 
no more than they have. For the 
splendourous extravagances procurable by 
wealth they cherish no desire. Love, 
and the intellectual treasures of the ages 
are theirs. To those capable of appre- 
ciating them, what more bountiful re- 
wards did storied island ever reveal? 
In each other they have found content- 
ment. Like the strings of a viol d’amour, 
their souls vibrate in sympathetic unison. 

To love, to be loved! To be for ever 
lifted above the interminable strivings 


[ 268 ] 


A WHITE FLOWER 


and disappointments of the ordinary 
into a magical plane, where two spirits 
might dwell united! 

A sudden autumnal gale, rushing 
through the startled stillness, whirling 
the leaves in its path, chilled his dream: 
the cottage, the feminine form, flowers, 
sunshine — all merged into nothingness, 
whence they came. Again he was sit- 
ting under an old oak tree in a leaf- 
carpeted valley, through which coursed 
the sorrowing wind, now dying down 
to a few desultory puffs. Heaving a 
great sob, he threw himself on the 
ground, and buried his face in the leaves. 
Overhead, below a leaden background, 
thinner vapours, almost transparent, were 
sweeping across the vast expanse. Near- 
by, the brooklet, weeping over its stony 


[ 269 ] 


FOREORDAINED 


bed, seemed to chant a perpetual monody 
for his vision of lost youth — despairing, 
doleful, interminable. 

And as for the little white flower, 
withered and dry, it lay on the dead 
grass, not far from the spot where it 
had been plucked — ^more than twenty- 
two years before. 


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